July 8
by makealist
Summary: On July 8, 1976, little James Ford's life changed forever. Every year, he must cope with that anniversary. Ultimately, this will end up being a pre-815, Dharma times, post-Incident, AND sideways fic.
1. 2004

**I had this idea a while back, but only wrote this tiny bit and got a good start on the next chapter. I'm hoping to make this an 8-10 chapter fic, but we'll see**

**July 8, 2004**

Sawyer sits with his head against the chair back. He lifts the bottle of whisky to his lips every so often. His a/c is busted and it's hot as balls in his apartment. He's set a box fan directly in front of him. It's on high and muffles all sound. It blows his hair back. Anyone looking at him in profile would think he was imitating the old "Is it live or is it Memorex?" cassette ads from back in the day.

He hears his phone ring, but the machine will get it. Probably Hibbs. Hibbs has been after him for some time, and Sawyer's actually starting to get interested in whatever cryptic thing it is he's been trying to tell him. "Got some news for you buddy," "Hope your passport's up-to-date," "Ever been Down Under, Mate?" and the like. Sounds like it might be an interesting set up. On the other hand, Sawyer is through with that guy and intends to keep ignoring his calls.

Especially today. Sawyer doesn't interact with the outside world on July 8 - not ever. When he's working a mark, it actually sometimes comes in handy.

On years he is working a mark, July 8 isn't that big of a deal. Works it to his advantage, actually. Chicks are pretty easy to figure out if you give it enough time. They fall into one of two categories. There are the broads who want to believe they are your end-all and be-all. That cling to you with desperation and desire. So, for them, you put up a big front. "Shit, it's horrible I gotta go check out this pipeline deal I been working on. Maybe I should cancel, just so I can be with you, baby. I don't know how I'm gonna manage being away for a few days . . ." And then she gets all generous and understanding and "I'll be here when you get back, baby."

On the other hand are the chicks who kinda dig the game, like the challenge. On them, you just disappear for a day or two, let 'em wonder why you ain't returning their calls, why you're all of a sudden ignoring 'em. Then you reappear a few days down the road, and they've all of a sudden got the fear of God in 'em. You could disappear at any moment, and take all that hot sex and loving and kind, considerate, listenin' boyfriend BS with you. Maybe they** will** talk to hubby about that deal you been talkin' about . . .

And that's it: two kinds of women in this world. Needy ones and ones who like to play the game. That's it. Well, OK, sometimes you also come across one who's needy AND likes to play the game. Whatever. He loves women, yes, but he doesn't really LIKE them. This neediness and game playing – it would drive him nuts if he wasn't really in it for the money.

He isn't currently working a mark. He could use some distraction. He should scout out the country club, look for a bored doctor's wife. Tomorrow, maybe, if he's not too hungover.

He keeps drinking. He's never yet gotten drunk enough to forget, but there are some years when he gets drunk enough to not care. This doesn't seem to be one of them. He finishes his whisky. He's made it through most of a fifth and he knows that he'll still have nightmares tonight.

NEXT: July 8, 1974


	2. 1974

**July 8, 1974**

For the first time in about as long as he can remember, Sawyer's had to spend July 8 in the company of other people. Interacting, doing shit, putting on a smiley face and "happy to be here" attitude. And, dammit, he didn't even have time to fully prepare! They'd bounced through time so many times, landing in year after year after year that none of them considered they'd been bouncing from month to month while they were at it. They started out in January 2005, they figured they'd landed in January 1974. Until a few days in their stay in Dharmaville, and it became clear that the big party everyone was so jazzed about was a 4th of July party. Things were weird enough that it wasn't till a few days later Sawyer put two and two together and realized July 8 was right around the corner.

And he couldn't "take the day off." He couldn't go out into the jungle and drink. He couldn't avoid people all day. He considered faking sick, but then he knew it'd mean a whole host of Dharma chicks flocking to the door offering to bring him soup and such - and that would be worse than hanging out at security all day. Instead he headed off for day 5 of Security Orientation. Not that bad, usually. Hank, Head of Security, was an interesting enough dude, and it was kinda cool to be getting the inside dope on the Dharma Initiative, of all fucking things. Of course today, of all days, was the pits. No Hank with crazy stories of Hostiles and perimeter patrols and the like. Instead, today was Phil, Security Team lackey extraordinaire, and his endless yammering about rules, regulations, manuals, reports and ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Sawyer counted the hours till it was over.

He skipped dinner, grabbed as many six packs as he could carry and headed off to the secluded outskirts of the barracks. Even then he couldn't catch some alone time. Fucking Miles sitting here yammering away. Sawyer figured he was after the free booze, and handed him two cans in the hope he'd go away. Instead he sat and drank and went on and on and on about his mom and dad and "they were right there. I shook his hand!" and Sawyer recognized the absolute fucking bizarreness of it all, but today of all days he didn't want to hear about parent drama. This was HIS day for parent drama, dammit. Miles eventually finished up his second beer, belched, hinted around that he might take more. Sawyer didn't get the hint. Or pretended not to, and finally - FINALLY - Miles was gone.

Left to drink in peace, alone, Sawyer stretched his legs out and leaned his head back on the bench. Not too comfortable, but he wouldn't trade solitude for comfort. He downed another beer, saw the first star appear, then another and another until the sky was filled with them. He heard footsteps approach from behind. If this was Miles back for more . . .

But it was Juliet. Fine. Outta everybody here in Dharma she was probably the most likely to just sit and keep quiet. She sat down uninvited, and sure enough, didn't say a word. In fact, she broke him. Dammit. He was the one to speak. "Miles send you out here to check on me?"

"Yep."

He chuckled. OK, this wasn't so bad. Sitting and drinking. Long as he didn't have to talk. He held out an unopened beer can. He half expected her to turn it down, but she didn't. She drank the whole thing, still silent. He offered a second, and he definitely expected her to turn down this one, but she accepted it, too. He supposed it was the booze loosening her tongue, because about halfway through this beer, she spoke again.

"Got my job assignment today."

He and Miles both had finally convinced her to stay. After discovering she wanted to go back to her sister, Miles had the winning argument. "So, what? You just gonna hang out and creepy-stalk a 10-year-old girl? Nice." And, yeah, what was the point of that? So she stayed. And her job assignment? He raised his eyebrows.

"Motor pool. Mechanic."

He laughed heartily. A real laugh. (Had he ever laughed on July 8?) Now, he was a bit disappointed she wasn't gonna teach. Mostly because the D.I. put its teachers into tight-waisted short-skirted little khaki numbers. And one half of him would get a huge kick out of making fun of her get-up, and the other half of him would just plain get a huge kick out of looking at her in said get-up. But mechanic? Now that was pretty damn funny.

"You got an aptitude with cars or somethin'?"

"Not the first clue," she responded. "But, you know, it's the '70s, and I guess the Dharma Initiative has some pretty funky ideas about women's rights, feminism, that sort of thing. They're trying to be more 'egalitarian' with their assignments."

Sawyer could hear the air quotes around 'egalitarian,' even if Juliet didn't actually use them. He bet that was one of Horace's words: egalitarian. Sawyer wasn't quite sure what it meant, but he figured it meant that the D.I. wasn't assigning people solely based on gender. Juliet's next remark confirmed it.

"In fact, you're lucky they didn't make you a kindergarten teacher. 'Now children, repeat after me,'" she sing-songed. "'Son. Of. A. Bitch.'"

That got him to guffaw. Seriously, the hell? Laughing on this day? He couldn't believe he was actually enjoying having company on this night of all nights.

"So, is security work so bad you've got to come all the way out here to drink by yourself?" she asked.

"It ain't the job, it's . . ."

Just like that, the spell was broken. THIS was why he didn't want to be around people on July 8 – he wanted to drink in peace and quiet away from prying questions and pity and people who would attempt to offer comforting words.

"It's?" she prodded, and he realized she was waiting on him to finish.

_It's none of your Goddamn business is what it is. Why can't anyone just leave me the fuck alone? Instead I'm stuck here in this crappy hippie commune with you four people and just butt the hell out already, wouldja?_

"It's the anniversary of the day my parents . . ." he started, and what the fuck was that? Some kind of Others mind control? Did they teach her that in Others 101? Because he was pretty damn sure his brain was telling him to tell her to mind her business. He hadn't even finished his sentence when she said, "Oh. Oh, James, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? I didn't even finish tellin' ya. How do you know I wasn't gonna say it's the anniversary of the day they got cable TV, huh?"

"It was in your file," she mumbled.

He felt like he'd been punched. Yeah, he was vaguely aware of the Others keeping tabs on them. She'd made that abundantly clear when she threatened to out him over Frank Duckett's death, way back when she'd first shown up in the survivor's camp. But the thought that it was ALL there? His whole life story? It kind of made sense now. How else would Locke know to get him to kill Anthony Cooper? So they knew it all, did they? She knew it all?

"It say anything in there 'bout Clementine and Cassidy?"

She looked blank.

"That's my daughter and her momma that I conned."

"Yes, they're in there. We Others are _very_ thorough." She tried the last remark with a smirk, trying to inject some levity into the conversation.

"God, I'm a shitheel," he sighed. He could only imagine how awful his life must read to anyone seeing it play out on paper in a file.

"Yep," she agreed.

Well. That wasn't the "No you're not, buck up little camper" response he'd expected. Huh. "Well, thanks a lot," he huffed.

"I call 'em like I see 'em, James."

"OK, then, if I'm such a shitheel, what're you doin' hangin' out with me?"

"My options are kind of limited. Beggars can't be choosers, you know."

She was being honest, but he ducked his head anyway, looked up at her with a half-cocked smile. A kind of "Come on, now, you know I'm not that bad," gesture.

She bit. "And you're good company, she added. Now he looked at her straight-on, flashed a full smile. "And you're kind of cute when you want to be," she continued, blushing. He upped the wattage on his smile, seeing how far this could go.

She looked away. "Besides, it's not like I'm exactly a saint myself," she said to the stars. "Did you know that I participated in the kidnapping and torture of some poor airplane crash survivors?"

"You don't say."

"One of them even tried to escape, and BLAM! I Tasered that loser's ass right to the ground."

He chuckled, "Poor son of a bitch."

"Yeah, well that didn't get me what I wanted, so I killed one of my co-workers, and when THAT didn't get me what I wanted, I infiltrated and spied on the crash survivors."

"Shit. That's cold," he said. "So, I guess the question is, then, why is an upstanding citizen such as myself hanging out with the likes of _**you**_?"

"Why indeed?" she asked.

"Well, you just wandered out here and sat your ass down. It would've been rude to tell ya to go away."

"Never knew you cared about being rude."

"Good point," he conceded. "So, why **AM** I letting you hang out with me? Truth is, you ain't so bad to look at yourself."

Something like fear, uncertainty, bashfulness, passed across her eyes. "You're drunk," she said.

"Yes, ma'am, I am," he stated, holding up and admiring his latest beer can.

She stood up. "So, you're OK? You're not going to go slinking off into the jungle? Not going to jump off a cliff? Miles will want a full report. He cares about you, you know."

"Does he now? Well, you be sure and tell Miles I ain't plannin' on doin' anymore tonight than gettin' good and soused."

She took a breath, and for an instant, it looked like she was going to say something. She must have thought better of it, because she nodded decisively. "All right then, James. Take care. See you tomorrow."

"Adios, Amiga, " he shouted at her retreating back.

**NEXT: July 8, 1975 (but this may be a long wait. Real life calls, you know?)**


	3. 1975

**July 8, 1975**

Sawyer trudged home in the light mist. So much for a day to himself. So much for drinking himself silly tonight. It was almost 11 and he was finally – finally! – done for the day. Two months ago when he'd made up the July schedule, he'd been sure to give himself July 8 off in order to properly mope and hermit and drink. He'd given himself the 9th off in order to properly recover. Setting the schedule – it was one of the benefits of being Head of Security. Well, Interim Head of Security, but still. One of the downsides? When someone reported a short-circuit in the pylon system, who got called in to deal with the fallout? The reporting protocol? The fence-line patrol? The meeting with the electrician? That's right – Head of Security. He'd discovered he could give himself the day off whenever he wanted, there was just no guarantee he'd actually get off time on his off day.

He supposed he should be happy. He'd been so busy dealing with this crap that he had little time to dwell on the events of 29 years ago. Or a year from now. However it worked. Instead, though, he realized he had a little over an hour in which to properly grieve, mourn, drink, forget . . . And he had a sudden almost overwhelming hope that Juliet would be there when he walked in the door. It scared him briefly to want someone so much, but he brushed it off quickly. He just didn't want to drink alone, that's all. Yeah.

He doubted she'd be there, though. A week ago she'd asked, shyly, tentatively, did he want company on this night of all nights? And he'd said no. No, he wanted to be alone. Preferred being alone, thank you very much. He'd meant it – at the time. Now he wished he'd told her to come over. He wished that maybe, maybe she'd ignore what he said. Maybe she would've thought he was just talking tough. Maybe she'd be there.

Probably not. She was always straightforward, honest with him, and expected the same in return. He found it odd that she expected this from him. Odder still that she got it from him. He knew he appreciated it. If he asked "What's wrong?" He never got that standard chick answer: "Nothing," in the grumbly, whiny voice that meant "Oh, it's something all right, mister, but I'm going to leave it to you to figure out." Nope, "nothing" from Juliet either meant, as she said "nothing," or on rare occasions, "nothing to do with you." Whatever it meant, what it _didn't_ mean was "I'm just going to act pissy and cold until you figure it out and do something about it."

Three nights ago, over at her place, he was putting his jeans back on. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, noticing she seemed somewhat put out.

"Well, when we're at your place, you practically beg me to stay the night, but when you're over here, you're out the door as soon as you aren't hard anymore."

He guffawed.

"You ask me what's wrong and I tell you. . . and you're laughing at me?"

"Well, it was just so . . . blunt," he finally managed. Dirty talk wasn't really her thing.

"Fine. All I'm saying is, it would be nice if you stayed the night some here, too."

He wondered if now was the time to tell her that if Hank didn't come back, and if he got the Head of Security job permanently, that he'd get his own house. Hank left 6 weeks ago when his mom had a heart attack. Sawyer had the job until he got back, royally pissing off Phil, who thought his seniority entitled him to the job. "Well, Phil, we're a meritocracy here," Horace patiently explained, head bowed, hands in pockets.

Later, Sawyer proudly accepted the congratulations of his friends, while simultaneously downplaying the news. It wasn't like he was going to be in the position all that long. "It's just two weeks," he'd said.

"Heard that one before," Juliet stated.

Sure enough, in those two weeks, Hank's mom had a series of small strokes, and two weeks morphed into going on three months. "I can't leave the position vacant forever," Horace said two days ago. "If Hank can't make it back on the next sub, I'm giving you the job permanently." And the job came with a house.

That would be nice, because the reason he hated staying over at her place was her roommate, Jill. Jill just always seemed so disapproving and nosy and irritating. It was nicer, actually, at his place, where Miles and Jin simply accepted, even welcomed, having Juliet around overnight, the next morning. She didn't care for it, though. "Too crowded, and the bathroom is disgusting," she stated – again, all honesty – when he asked why she hated staying at his place.

But tonight? July 8? Hours left to go? Yeah, now he wished that she was going to be there waiting for him this night. This awful night. But he'd told her he wanted to be alone, and she would take him at his word. Still he had hope. Walking in the front door - just Miles sitting on the couch reading a comic book. Jin, he knew, was back watching monitors. Was that a sly look on Miles' face? Maybe she was waiting for him in the bedroom. Nope. No such luck.

He sat heavily on the bed and tugged off his boots. He reached into the bedside table drawer, rummaged past condoms, paperbacks, busted pens, his stack of goofy Polaroids (one of him faking a muscleman pose with Miles, one of Jin brandishing a rifle and a sneer, one of jump-suited Juliet sitting cross-legged on the roof of a Dharma van – he was still working on getting her to agree to some racier Polaroids), half a pack of wintergreen gum, until he found his whisky flask. He'd been planning to start on this 12 hours ago.

"No time like the present," he laughed to himself, raised a toast to the empty room, and took a big swig. The liquor burned his throat and made his eyes water. These hippies could make some good booze. A few more gulps and he didn't feel much better. In fact, he felt lonely. Isn't this what he wanted on July 8? Solitude? Now it just felt kind of shitty.

Why didn't he just walk two houses over and get her? Because he was afraid to admit to himself how much he wanted to? Too late for that. Because he didn't want to admit to her how much he needed to? Well, why the hell not?

He took yet another sip. Damn alcohol. Alcohol's what started it all between them, anyway. Well, that's what they told themselves. Truth was, it was that damn song. Alcohol had jack shit to do with it. Just easier to pretend that it started when they were drunk. Even if they weren't even close. It was New Year's Eve, and there had been drinking. Just not really that much.

And as the countdown began . . . 10, 9, 8 . . . Horace at the front of the crowded room, conducting, everyone shouting . . . 7, 6, 5 . . . Lara Chang blowing a freakishly loud noisemaker, Miles drunk and glaring at her from the corner . . . 4, 3, 2 . . . Juliet by Sawyer's side now, grinning, winking, the absurdity of the "new" year being 1975 . . . 1 . . . "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" shouts filled the room, preposterously loud noisemakers all over the place, and he turned to kiss Juliet. Right on the lips, and it wasn't what you could call passionate, but it wasn't exactly chaste, either. It lingered, maybe just a second longer than it should have, and in those few seconds, he was staring into her impossibly blue eyes . . .

Someone was pounding him on the back. He broke away from Juliet, turned, it was Maurice, a Dharma zoologist, wrapping him in a big bear hug, with manly slaps on the back, and "Happy New Year, Jim," and he saw that Juliet was now hugging Pierre Chang, kissing on him on both cheeks; Maurice released him, and now . . . Sawyer couldn't remember her name, but one of the school teachers hugged him next, a little too tightly. He could tell whatshername was shitfaced, and Juliet had been pulled halfway across the room by Jill, who was shouting "Sayonara 1974!" right up in Juliet's face, and Sawyer wanted her to be back closer, and pondered what that kiss was about, and why had it lasted just that teeny, tiny bit longer than necessary . . .

That's when the music stared up. The first few simple notes of Auld Lang Syne. And the couples who'd come to the party together were paired off and dancing, close, superclose, some, most, now kissing with fervor. Those who'd come solo were now standing shoulder-to-shoulder, arms draped across each other's backs, swaying, belting out the lyrics. Sawyer had come to the party with Juliet, but they weren't a couple, and she was standing here now, and he wondered if he should put an arm across her shoulder and sway and sing, or if he should take her in his arms and dance close with her.

He felt unsure, awkward, which he _never_ felt around women. And around this woman, who was normally the person he felt most comfortable with . . . He wasn't sure how it happened, but now they were dancing. Not too close. Not like the other couples who were obscenely close, some even beginning to grind. No, he and Juliet were dancing at a safe, eighth-grade dance distance. Close, but not actually touching except where his hands were on her hips, and her hands were on his shoulders.

"Happy New Year," he said, wryly. Hell, he thought, awkwardness and sexual tension aside, they were celebrating the fact that the brand-new year was Nineteen Fuckin' Seventy Five.

She laughed, and that's when the song really kicked into gear. The other partygoers were singing joyfully, but if you really stopped to listen to the lyrics, it was melancholy. And now he and Juliet were no longer dancing. Just standing, staring at each other, still at eighth-grade distance, and listening.

Should _old_ acquaintance be forgot,  
and never brought to mind ?  
Should _old_ acquaintance be forgot,  
and _old_ lang syne ?

Staring at each other, he knew they were thinking the same thing. Was that it? Old acquaintances? Was that what was keeping them apart? Keeping them even now at a respectful, safe distance from each other? And wasn't that all they were? Acquaintances? St. Jack? Freckles? Were their memories what was filling this foot of space? Well, fuck it, Sawyer thought, it's like the song says . . . "never brought to mind." So he closed the distance between them, and kissed her again. She kissed him back, and they were swaying again, maybe dancing, and the song continued. It was hot in the crowded room, and loud, and he was beginning to feel a little dizzy. He'd later blame that on the booze, but it wasn't the booze.

He was growing aroused, and since they were no longer so far apart, he was sure she felt it, too, and he was too hot and they needed privacy.

"Wanna blow this joint?" he broke the kiss long enough to whisper. She just nodded, so he took her hand, led her through the crowd and out the door. The worry skidded across his brain: Did she want out so they could continue this in private? Or did she want out so that the fresh air could slap her to her senses?

It was cool out here, or as cool as it ever got on the Island. They were still holding hands, and he turned to her, searching for answers.

"Your place is closer," she said. It was – by only two houses, but that was about one hundred yards of time to stop, slow down, and reconsider. They practically sprinted back to his place. Empty, thank God.

Even that time was enough. The thirty seconds it took them to dash into his house. Should they be doing this? Why mess with a good thing? But, hot damn she was fine, and he was a red-blooded man, after all. And, well, he was horny, OK? It HAD been a long time . . .

As if she felt the same way, they rushed through the preliminaries, no time to stop and think and reconsider. Just a wham, bam, thank you ma'am . . . and they were done. They were on his bed, but still half dressed, and when he caught his breath, he finally managed to say, "Holy shit, what have we just done?" And he was relieved to hear her laugh (OK, maybe they hadn't messed with the good thing they had going), and answer, "It's been awhile, so I'm not entirely sure, but I think it's called 'sex.'"

Lying there, with all the time in the world now (so it seemed) to reconsider, reflect . . . well, he couldn't say he regretted it. Maybe they should've done this a lot sooner. And why hadn't they? Old acquaintances. And damn, now they were being "brought to mind" again, all while he had a half-naked, gorgeous woman/best friend in bed with him, so he blocked them out again. Auld lang syne.

Instead, he turned to kiss Juliet. Slower, this time. He didn't need to rush, because he wasn't in any danger of backing out this time. They kissed and finished undressing simultaneously, and now were exploring, feeling each other's bodies in entirely new way. For a second, when her hands were trailing down his stomach, followed by her lips, he felt a brief surge of anger at Jack and at Kate . . .it was their fault it had taken them so long to get here, dammit. But he had better sensations to focus on than anger, and . . . OH FUCK, WHY DID HE WAIT SO LONG FOR THIS?

At some point in the evening, he had his tongue in her navel, when they heard the front door to the house bust open. They could hear Miles singing, incredibly loudly and incredibly off-key. Then they heard Jin. "Shhhhhhh. Miles. You need to be not loud."

"Quiet! You mean I need to be QUIET!" Miles shouted, supplying the word Jin appeared not to know.

In Sawyer's bedroom, he and Juliet kept perfectly still. Shit, he wouldn't put it past Miles to barge in here right now. They heard him clomp down the hall, and fall into bed himself. They both let out sighs of relief, followed by nervous giggles.

Sometime around dawn, he dozed off. When he woke, it was mid-morning and he was alone in bed. He was disappointed, but also relieved. If she snuck out before Jin and Miles were up . . . he could put off that revelation for a while.

Until he entered the kitchen. She was still here, wearing her jeans from last night and one of his t-shirts. Jin and Miles were already up, too . . . kind of. Jin was offering Miles some foul-looking sea creature, much to Miles' green-faced protest. "It will make you feel better," Jin offered.

Miles looked ill. "More coffee, please, Juliet" he said through gritted teeth.

"Someone overdid it last night!" Sawyer said in a booming voice. Miles groaned. Jin and Juliet looked to Sawyer with helpless expressions. "Hair of the dog!" exclaimed Sawyer, pulling a beer out of the fridge, slamming it on the table next to Miles. This was fun.

Miles kept his head on the table, but raised his eyes. "Just 'cause you got laid last night, doesn't mean you have to act so loud and cheery this morning." Sawyer looked to Juliet. Neither wanted to travel down that particular road. But that was it. That was all Miles ever said about him sleeping with Juliet. Jin never said anything. They just accepted it, and when she spent the night over at their place, it was all right. Just the four of them. The way it should be. No interlopers. Over at her place, he had to deal with persnickety, uptight, nosy Jill.

* * *

He realized tonight, though, if he wanted to see her, he had to go over there. He looked at his whisky bottle. Jesus, she'd be better company than it was. Was it just pride keeping him here, drinking alone? Fuck it. He tugged his boots back on, didn't bother to tie them.

"I'm going over to Juliet's," he announced to Miles on his way out the door.

"Tell her I want my Barry White album back," Miles called.

Sawyer half walked/half jogged to her place, pounded on the door. She opened it (thank God – he didn't want to have to bother with Jill right now). She looked surprised to see him. "James, hey," she said, an unasked question kind of hanging there: _what are you doing here?_

_I don't want to be alone anymore. I want to be with you. Need to. Please be with me tonight._

He had too much pride to say what he really felt and instead lamely blurted, "Miles wants his Barry White album back."

"Ohhhhhkay." She gave him a puzzled look, turned to go back in the house and get the record. She turned back around. "You ok? Want to come in?"

He nodded, and came in. She shut the door behind them, walked to her stereo system, began rummaging through records. "I know today . . ." she started, handing him the record, but he interrupted her.

"Shit. I ain't here for the record. I . . . Can I stay here tonight?"

"Of course." She cut her eyes toward the kitchen where Jill was messing around. Juliet held out a hand, and led him to her bedroom.

They rested on her bed, clothed except for shoes, not touching anywhere, except where her right foot was slanted up against his left. He enjoyed the silence, and the solitude he could still enjoy when she was around. He didn't know how long they'd been there, when he heard her take a breath, preparing to speak. Fuck, he didn't want to have to talk about it. He didn't want to have to answer this question coming up, whatever it was. _How did today go? You feeling alright? You want to talk about it? You still having nightmares?_ He owed her an answer, owed her honesty. He steeled himself for the question to come.

"Why do you suppose Horace always keeps his hands in his pockets?" she asked.

Not expecting that one. "Uhhhm." He owed her an answer, owed her honesty. "I got no fuckin' clue. And what the hell are you talkin' about anyway?"

"I'm serious. Next time you see him, check it out. He _always_ has his hands in his pockets. He came over to talk to the Motor Pool today, and it was all, 'Blah blah blah, Ann Arbor, blah blah, blah Gerald DeGroot, blah blah quarterly reports, blah blah.' And the entire time, he didn't take his hands out of his pockets once."

"Blah blah blah?" James quoted back. "This from the teacher's pet?" He'd loved hearing about her high school days, and hadn't yet tired of making fun of her for being such a goody-two-shoes.

"Teacher's pet was a whole other lifetime," she sighed, staring at the ceiling. "Now I'm just a grease monkey in bed with a convicted felon."

"Convicted felon was a whole other lifetime, sweetheart. Don't forget you're in bed with the Interim Head of Security for the Dharma Initiative."

"Ah, my childhood dream come true." She turned to look at him now, and he turned to look back. They smiled at each other before turning their attention back to the ceiling. He reached over to take her hand. Their feet were still touching.

He woke up. He was still fully dressed. It was morning. July 9, 1975. He'd made it through the 8th. Not a single nightmare – a first, for this lifetime or any other.

* * *

**So I Googled the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne just to make sure I got them right, and the English translation is very Suliet-y, full of old acquaintances, running around in nature, hand holding, paddling in the water, and, yes, daisies:**

**Should _old_ acquaintance be forgot,**  
**and never brought to mind ?**  
**Should _old_ acquaintance be forgot,**  
**and _old_ lang syne ?**

**CHORUS:**

**For auld lang syne, my dear,**  
**for auld lang syne,**  
**we'll take a cup of kindness yet,**  
**for auld lang syne.**

**And surely you'll _buy_ your pint _cup_ !**  
**and surely I'll _buy_ mine !**  
**And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet,**  
**for auld lang syne.**

**CHORUS**

**We _two have_ run about the _slopes_,**  
**and _picked_ the _daisies_ fine**  
**But we've wandered _many_ a weary _foot_,**  
**_since_ auld lang syne.**

**CHORUS**

**We _two have paddled_ in the _stream_,**  
**_from_ morning sun till dine†**  
**But seas between us _broad have roared_**  
**_since_ auld lang syne.**

**CHORUS**

**And there's a hand my trusty _friend_ !**  
**And _give us_ a hand o' thine !**  
**And we'll _take_ a right _good-will draught_,**  
**for auld lang syne.**


	4. 1976

**July 8, 1976**

_**Our father had a few peculiarities: one was, he never ate desserts; another was that he liked to walk. As far back as I could remember, there was always a Chevrolet in excellent condition in the car house, and Atticus put many miles on it in business trips, but in Maycomb he walked to and from his office four times a day . . .**_

That was page 108 in his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_, and he'd read that paragraph at least a dozen times. Not because the paragraph was particularly good (frankly, he was more interested in anything to do with Boo Radley) and not because the book was bad (he'd sped through the first 75 pages or so . . . what he read before tonight). No, he just couldn't concentrate.

_**Our father had a few peculiarities: one was he never ate desserts;**_

Shit! Reading the same paragraph again! OK, concentrate, concentrate.

_**Another was that he liked to walk.**_

Sawyer's mind wandered. He peered over the edge of his glasses. Juliet was reading. She turned a page. Was she actually reading? If so, how? Wasn't she distracted? What was she reading? OK, hunker down, hunker down. Read some more.

_**One was he never ate desserts;**_

Wait. He read that already. He glanced up again. Juliet turned another page. DAMMIT! How was she able to do that? Others training, probably. Fucking Others, Hostiles, Natives, whatever you want to call them. No, no. Calm down. It had nothing to do with the Others. She'd told him this before. She had an ability to block out bad things: "I made some of my best research breakthroughs when I was busy pretending my marriage wasn't a total disaster and my husband wasn't a grade-A prick."

And while his brain is on the subject, let's not get started on THAT topic. What the hell? How in the world did she have an asshole ex-husband who treated her like shit? "Well, I was a bit of a pushover. Actually, that's an understatement." Really? _Really_? "People can change, James." OK, point taken.

_**Atticus put many miles on it in business trips,**_

Hold up, wait. Had he skipped something?

_**Our father had a few peculiarities:**_

FUCK. Read that bit already. What time is it? 10:16 PM. SERIOUSLY? Only eight minutes had passed since he last looked at his watch. OK. OK. He looked up again. Juliet turned another page. He shifted in his chair.

They were acting normal. "Look, the only thing I want to happen is that we treat it like any other day. Totally normal. OK? Please? Let's just act like it's a normal day."

And, Oh, how normal the day was. Yes, breakfast . Dharma-Os. "No, I didn't make a cup of coffee for you, James. Do I_ normally_ make a cup of coffee for you?" No, no she didn't. He sometimes made enough coffee for her (he woke up earlier), but on days when she woke up earlier she didn't make coffee for him (he'd complained a handful of times about it being too strong, so she gave up). So, no, she didn't normally make him coffee. Ergo, no coffee today. Because today? Today was a Totally Normal Day.

He went to work. Miles and Jin knew all about the "TODAY IS JUST LIKE ANY OTHER DAY" edict, and so . . . Miles gave him shit about something this morning, _just like any other day_, and Sawyer just about bit his head off. WHAT THE FUCK WAS MILES THINKING? Jesus, didn't he know not to mess with him today? But then Miles DIDN'T mess with him for about two hours, and Sawyer got terribly grumpy about THAT. _Miles is just pussyfooting around when I TOLD him to treat today like any other day. _So when Miles asked if he wanted afternoon coffee, Sawyer bit his head off for that, too.

In fact, he bit just about everyone's head off. He was grumpy and short tempered. And if no one was doing anything to piss him off, he went out of his way to provoke it. By mid-afternoon, the entire Dharma complex was confused. The prevailing rumor was that Jim and Juliet were on the outs. Miles and Jin tried to tamp down the rumor, but they weren't going to tell the truth about what was really bothering their friend.

The Dharmites weren't the only ones confused. Sawyer himself, Mr. Jim LaFleur, was completely flummoxed. No doubt about it, he'd turned completely back into "Sawyer" – for today at least. Angry, sulky, mean, self-loathing. Is this who he truly was? He'd begun to buy into the whole "Jim LaFleur" persona – responsible, friendly, dependable, gruff when the situation called for it. Begun to believe it was the "real" him.

Now he was just confused. Who the hell was he? Jim LaFleur was a con, no doubt, but Sawyer wasn't him, either. Who the hell was he?

He glanced at his watch again. 10:18. Holy hell. Only two minutes had passed?

_**but in Maycomb he walked to and from his office four times a day . . .**_

OK, OK. Reading his book after dinner. Just like any other day. Yep, normal ole day here in the Dharma Initiative. Just a normal, normal day. Except of course it wasn't a normal day. It was July 8. And not any July 8. It was THE July 8. July 8, 1976.

Truth was, he never expected this day to arrive. Two weeks? "Locke'll be back by then." He totally meant it. That whole thing? Getting Juliet to stay here? Not any of it a lie. Of course, Locke would be back in two weeks. It was John Fucking Locke. Boar hunting, rain predicting, wacky talk spouting, knife wielding John Locke. _Of course_ he'd be back.

"You really gonna leave me here with the Mad Scientist and Mr. I Speak to Dead People? And Jin's a helluva nice guy, but not exactly the greatest conversationalist."

True, true, and true. OK. Sawyer never figured Faraday out, but he was long gone. Miles? He really did think he was nothing but a whack job. Cynical, snarky, and a pain in the ass to boot. And yes, he still thought he was a whack job (and who the hell would ever want to talk to a dead person anyway?). He was still cynical and snarky and a pain in the ass. But he was also a good friend. Jin was still a helluva nice guy, and now he could actually carry on conversations. But two years ago? No way. No way did he want to be left alone with those guys.

"Who's gonna get my back?"

Uhm, hello? They were getting ready to con the Dharma Initiative into thinking they were boat wreck survivors. That, he could pull off. But if he couldn't? Well, let's just say it would be nice and handy to have someone who knew a heckuva lot more than he did about this damn Island and the people who lived on it.

"Two weeks. That's all I'm askin'"

Because, yeah, Locke will be back. No one really thinks they're going to be stuck here and now for any longer than that, right?

Except here it was, 2 years later. No, he never though this day would actually come. They'd be good and gone and wouldn't even make it to August 1974 much less July 8, 1976. Except they did.

Once Faraday left for Ann Arbor, he just knew Mad Dan would figure something out. Except he hadn't – yet. Then Sawyer got made Head of Security, allowed into Horace's inner "Circle of Trust," and, holy shit, the DI was working on some weird stuff – including Pierre Chang's time travel work. All right, three angles to work this from – Locke, Faraday, Chang. They'd be out of here lickity split.

Except they weren't. And on New Year's, when 1975 turned into 1976, he was too busy marveling at the fact that he'd been with the same woman for a year now to realize what that actually meant. 1976. THE year.

By late February, though, he knew it was coming. A foreboding that told him they'd be here on July 8. Locke wasn't coming back, Faraday wasn't figuring things out, and Chang wasn't making any headway. They'd be here, and he had to figure out what to do about it.

Could he leave? Could he stop it? Was Faraday right? If "whatever happened, happened," was true, then they were always here. He wished there was some way to know.

In early April, he and Miles rode out past the pylons for a meeting with Richard.

"Damn. If I had a time machine, we could go back to the present, and ask Richard if we were always here. Then, we could come back, and we'd know for certain about this what happened happened mumbo jumbo."

Miles was silent for a bit, but finally spoke. "You mean to tell me if we had a time machine, you'd use it to go to the future, get information about now, and come back here. . . to _1976_?"

Huh. He hadn't meant it exactly that way. Or maybe he did. Huh. Truth was, he really was dying to ask a 2004 Richard if he'd seen him in 1974, 75, 76. But he didn't really want to stay in 2004. What was there for him then?

Mistaking Sawyer's silence for an invitation to keep on running his yap, Miles went on. "You know, if you're worried about it, I really think she'd stick with you in 2006. I think it's you she's into, not 'Jim LaFleur.' I've got no fucking clue why, because you're a dick, but LaFleur's all right."

"I love you too, Miles."

"I tell you what, I've given up figuring her out. Seems to be working for you, though, so whatever, dude. Just tell her I want my Barry White album back."

Damn Barry White album. The two of them were always passing it back and forth. There seemed to be some dispute over who actually owned the thing. He'd long since removed himself from that controversy.

God, what he wouldn't do to go ask Future Richard if Jim LaFleur really existed. If he really met with him a few times a year in the mid-1970s. But there was no way to know if what happened, happened, and so he agonized. What if he left and could never get back? Well, he supposed he could convince Juliet to come with him, then it wouldn't really matter if he made it back or not.

But what if he got there, and then saw it? And couldn't stop it? Or what if he somehow caused it? Then again, how could he just sit here, doing nothing, when he knew with absolute certainty what was going down back home? How could he live with himself if he didn't try?

In early June he went with Juliet to a Dharma picnic. They used to go to these things all the time. Son of a bitch, but Dharma had a party for just about every damn thing. And so, when they first got here, they went to every damn one. In part, because they needed to fit in, make friends, play nicey-nice. But also because: hey, a party! Free booze! Music! If you're tromping through the jungle, unshowered, hungry, thirsty, nasty, even a hippie research commune party seems the epitome of fun.

That lasted a few months. But then, damn. These people partied over every last thing. Enough! Now they rarely went. He didn't even remember why they decided to go to this one. The weather was nice? Juliet promised Lara she'd come? They were out of books? He couldn't remember, but they did go.

He sat in the shade of some trees grumbling about it. Juliet was off wherever. He hadn't even seen her yet, and she's the one who made him come here (yes, that was it – it was a goodbye party for someone at the garage). He heard a bunch of kids at the volleyball court screwing around. He glanced over at them, and saw creepy little Ben off to the side, watching, but not participating. Not invited to participate, probably.

That kid creeped him out. Probably because he knew he'd grow up to be a bug-eyed evil bastard who'd torture him for absolutely no good reason. So, yeah, he avoided the creepy kid like the plague. Juliet, bless her heart, had the opposite approach. He'd made her life a living hell for three years (or was going to), even killed the man she "loved." Or how had she put it? "Loved is too strong a word, but I really, really liked him." But did she avoid kid Ben? No. She didn't go out of her way to see him, but when she did, she always had a big smile, friendly words, a wave.

Thing was, Juliet didn't buy "what happened, happened." The whole idea of it made her head hurt. "Really? It always happened? Just like this? So, I_ always_ did this?" She stuck out her tongue, crossed her eyes, stuck her thumbs in her ears, waved her fingers around. Boy, that had made him laugh. They hadn't been in Dharmaville any longer than a month when she did that. _God, but she's kinda cute when she's acting silly._ Funny stray thought – at the time. Why had it taken so many months for him to figure those feelings out?

He glanced up at her now. Still reading her book. OK, back to the book. Normal night. Normal Night. NORMAL NIGHT.

_**there was always a Chevrolet in excellent condition in the car house,**_

Oh, who the fuck was he kidding? He wasn't making any progress. Had this always happened? Had he always sat here in this chair, pretending to read _To Kill a Mockingbird_ while little James cowered under a bed thousands of miles away? Yes, yes he had.

See, Juliet still believed they could change things. It's why she was always so friendly with Kid Ben. She felt sorry for the little creep with no mom, an abusive dad. "Kids can be so cruel to smart kids who don't fit in," she said.

Clearly speaking from experience, he thought. "What, Little Miss Smartypants, you get bullied as a kid?" Response: cold stare. "Just askin'." So how did two smart, bullied kids grow up to be so totally different? How could one grow up to be cruel and ruthless and the other grow up to be kind and loving? Except, hadn't there been a time when he thought_ she_ was cruel and ruthless?

No matter. She thought maybe if Kid Ben had one adult who smiled at him, waved to him, had sympathy for him . . . maybe, just maybe, he'd grow up to be someone different.

_**Our father had a few peculiarities:**_

This again? Should he just close the book and quit the pretense that he was actually reading it? No. No, no. Reading this book was NORMAL. Just like today. Totally normal. And why was he thinking about Juliet being nice to Kid Ben? Oh, that's right. The going away party for . . . for Randy, wasn't it? Kid Ben sitting off to the side while the rest of the kids played volleyball. James sitting in the shade, waiting for Juliet.

Here she comes. ZOING! James fought hard not to look like some cartoon wolf with eyeballs bulging from their sockets, tongue drooling, heart leaping out of his chest. He'd not seen this dress before. Hot damn! How was it remotely possible that she was his girlfriend? This dress was . . . well, shit, just remembering it now he felt his pulse speed up.

"You've never seen a wrap dress before?"

"Uhhh . . ."

She smirked at him. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Lara needed help with some decorations." She held her hand out to him. "Want to join the rest of the party?"

"Uhhhh. . ." If he'd managed not to look like a cartoon wolf, he_ hadn't _managed to keep his eyes off the front of her dress.

"Up here." Her index finger pointed from her cleavage to her eyes. "Are you listening? Want to join the rest of the party?"

"Not really, no," he let his eyes slide right back down.

She rolled her eyes. (Or he imagined she did. It's not where he was looking.) "It's the dress, isn't it?"

"The dress is fine. It's _you_ in the dress. Let's go home. These hippies'll have another damn party in 48 hours, you know it."

"Yeah, but this is Randy's goodbye . . . I promised I'd come."

"I can guarantee it." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "at home with me."

She laughed. Gave him the "seriously?" look. He turned the dimples on full glare.

"All right, sir. You win." She leaned in to him. Their foreheads touched. He remembered she hated these parties more than he did.

"Let me just say goodbye to Randy," she whispered.

"In that dress?"

"I'm not going home with Randy, am I?" She ran her hands up his sleeves. Kissed him and sauntered off. HOT DAMN.

A weird feeling he was being watched. He turned toward the volleyball court. The kids were all gone. All except Kid Ben. Just staring at him. Creepy. Sawyer stared back, gave his meanest "LaFleur in Charge" glare, but the kid just stared at him with an evil, hateful look. It creeped Sawyer out.

Damn kid's gonna grow up to torture me for absolutely no damn reason.

_He kept me here because he had some weird idea that I was "his." It's why he sent Goodwin off to die. Because of me._

… torture me for absolutely no damn reason.

_I guess he thought if he couldn't have me, nobody could._

Kid's gonna grow up to torture me for absolutely no damn reason.

_We got files on all of you. Yours was a doozy. You don't seem like such a catch on paper, James._

Kid's gonna grow up to torture me for absolutely no damn reason.

_Weird thing is, supposedly I look just like someone. Never figured out who. His mother, I guess._

Kid's gonna grow up to torture me for absolutely no damn reason … Except when he gets a file and finds out that Jim LaFleur was actually James Ford, with a rap sheet a mile long. James Ford: absentee father, murderer, and grade-A bastard.

Juliet came sashaying back, swinging her hips, suggestively and jokingly. She approached with a big grin. "Ready to go, big boy?'

He just sat. Numb. He stared at her, and for whatever reason, she took that as an invitation to sit in his lap, wrap her arms around his neck. He didn't move. He cut his eyes to the volleyball court, and there he was, still looking, building up resentments that would take nearly thirty years to pay off.

Was this when it happened? Right here? Right now? Staring at the one woman who went out of her way to be nice to him? Watching her make out with that asshole LaFleur? This was part of it, at the very least. Right here, right now. It's what happened.

"Everything OK?" she asked now, looking at him with concern.

"Whatever happened, happened," like a mantra. And again for good measure, "Whatever happened, happened."

She didn't say a word, but leaned back, away from him, face full of confusion and concern.

"I . . . let's get out of here," he managed. "I'll tell ya when we get home."

And from then on, he knew. They had always been here, always done exactly this. Nothing they could do could stop it. What's done is done. What happened, happened. And he was not going back to stop July 8, 1976. Instead, he was sitting right here. Normal Day.

_**but in Maycomb he walked to and from his office four times a day . . .**_

Juliet closed her book. "I'm going to get ready for bed."

He looked at his watch. 11:23. Getting closer. He just nodded.

_**Our father had a few peculiarities**_

He heard the water running in the bathroom. She'd wash her face first. No, first she'd brush her hair back in a tight ponytail, off her face. Then the water would be just warm enough. She'd put both hands in, palm up, and run the warm, damp hands over her face.

Next she would brush her teeth, floss, swish mouthwash around. Every so often, he'd catch her in there preening, craning her neck this way and that. Looking for blemishes, wrinkles, who knew what. She claimed she was on the lookout for stray grease she'd missed in her post-work shower.

11:28. He'd almost made it.

_**As far back as I could remember,**_

The night of the afternoon of the wrap dress, when he finally could speak, he simply said, "It don't matter what we do. Faraday was right. All this happened before." And he explained about Kid Ben, the way he was looking at them, everything he'd put together.

"I've been sort of thinking the same thing for a while now," she said.

That surprised him. "Then how come you're still nice to him? Kid Ben? If it don't matter, why not just treat him like shit?"

"If I started treating him like shit, then wouldn't it be true that I _always_ treated him like shit? If what happened, happened, I may as well do the right thing and be nice to a kid."

Sawyer chuckled. He'd sort of been thinking that if what happened always happened, it didn't matter, and he may as well do whatever the hell he wanted. Screw doing the "right thing," nothing they did mattered. But he would do the "right thing," whatever that was. He supposed it wasn't going back to the mainland. He supposed it was staying here, keeping the Dharma Initiative safe, keeping an eye out for any of their fellow time travelers. He supposed doing the right thing was . . .

"I love you," he said.

She gaped, shut her mouth, blinked a handful of times.

"I been thinkin' that for a while, just didn't have the guts to say it. I wouldn't a said it now, but what happened, happened, and I guess I always said it right here and now. Couldn't help myself."

"And I guess I always said it back?"  
"I don't know, did ya?"

"I love you, too, James."

"Well, I guess you did then."

_**As far back as I could remember,**_

Juliet walked back in from the bathroom. Picked up her book again. So Sawyer pretended to be reading still. He looked at his watch. 11:32.

This was not normal. See, once one of them got up to "get ready for bed," then the other followed soon after. And then they'd go to bed. Maybe read some more. Maybe have sex. Maybe both. Not at the same time. Although, hmmmm . . .

_**As far back as I could remember,**_

He'd been reading this paragraph all night. No more pretending. He shut his book. She looked up. Shut her book, too. He looked for the first time at the cover. What was she reading?_ A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_. Chick book? Worth reading? He'd have to ask later.

He could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. He leaned over, elbows on knees, hands in hair. Tick tick tick tick tick.

Internally, he dared her to speak. He fucking dared her to say "It'll be all right, James. It'll be OK." Because it absolutely fucking WOULD NOT. What happened happened, and what happened today was horrible and in no way OK. And it wouldn't be all right. After today, that 8-year-old boy would begin turning into a cruel, selfish, hateful man. So he glared at her, because sometimes, just sometimes, he had to be that man again: challenging, daring, comeon, just say the word so I can jump down your throat about it. He glared, and she stared back, calmly, with just a hint of concern. He could feel his anger leaking out, could almost hear the whine of it leaving his body.

11:40. Tick, tick tick tick

He clenched the arms of the chair. White knuckles. Huh. He always thought "white knuckles" was just a saying. He glanced over at Juliet on the couch. This is where they always sat reading. Him on his chair, her on the couch. Normal normal normal normal normal normal.

11:50

She had purple nail polish on her toes. Kind of sexy. But not tonight.

He could do this. Make it through today. He'd made it through this day, this very day, once before. And he was only eight. And he didn't have this woman, this woman who loved him, to help him through. He had had a woman who loved him, his mom, but she'd just died. Right after telling him how much she loved him. She died. And he'd made it through, right? He was here wasn't he?

11:58

Neither of them had spoken for more than half an hour. He would be eternally grateful for her well-timed ability to just shut the hell up. Maybe one day when they were old and deaf he'd make a joke about that. When would that be? When would they be old? In 2010? Or in 2040? It didn't matter when, just as long as they were together. She wouldn't get bored of him, would she? No. No, he could make sure she wouldn't.

11:59

He began to cry. Silent tears.

**12:00. July 9, 1976**

"It's over," he said, breaking the silent spell. Truth was, with the way the Island moved, the way time here worked, maybe it was over 8 hours ago. Or maybe it wouldn't actually happen until 8 hours from now. But his watch HERE and his calendar NOW read July 9. He'd made it.

His silent tears turned to sobs. Juliet rushed to his side, held his head on her shoulder. God, he felt like such a miserable damn baby but he couldn't stop. When he finally did stop sobbing, he kept his head on her shoulder for a bit.

She spoke. "Can we stop pretending today is normal now?"

"Today is normal, sweetheart. I made it. We made it."


	5. 1977

**I wrote another one-shot story, and just wanted to mention it b/c I don't think many read it. It was Kate-centric, but trust me, if you're reading b/c you like Suliet fic, it's really Suliet as much as anything. So, if you're a Suliet fan, the story is "Ghosts of LA." OK. On with this one:**

**July 8, 1977**

James is tipsy. Oh, fuck, all right. Drunk. D-R-U-K-N, Drunk. No, wait. It's D-R . .. D-R-U-N-K, Drunk. Yep, drunk. He sits down on the front porch. No, on a chair on the front porch, but the chair is a bit farther down than he counted on. He falls down on a chair on the front porch. Yeah, that's the truth.

"God, I'm drunk," he admits.

"Isn't that what you normally do on July 8?" Miles slurs.

And how the hell does Miles know that? Oh, that's right. Told him. Amazing the things you tell people once you start tellin'. Amazing the things you tell when you got all the time in the world.

And where is he? Whose front porch? Miles is sitting on the floor of the porch giggling, but are they at Miles and Jin's? Or is he home? What's that racket coming from the house?

_You're my sun, my moon, my guiding star  
My kind of wonderful, that's what you are  
I know there's only, only one like you  
There's no way they could have made two  
You're all I'm living for  
Your love I'll keep for evermore_

Barry White. Well, damn, that doesn't help one single bit. His brain swims. Which of them had that album last? God, the two of them are always fussing over that thing. He lets his head loll to the side. A planter with flowers. Well kept. Ah, so he's at home. What did she say that one time about those damn flowers?

"It's just nice to have something to take care of, James. It's fun to nurture them, watch them grow."

Shit. Had that been a clue? When did she say that? Was she trying to tell him something? No, no he was pretty sure that flower conversation was at least a year ago. Certainly not since . .. well, since lately.

_I see so many ways that I  
Can love you till the day I die  
You're my reality, yet I'm lost in a-a-a a dream_

James giggles.

"What's so damn funny?" Miles asks.

"Nothin'."

Just that Juliet is currently winning the Battle of the Barry White Album. Which won't be a battle for long. James has a few secrets up his sleeve. His Special Secret Sub Shipment. It had a second copy of the album, currently hidden under a pile of shit on the top shelf of the closet. He's gonna give it to Miles first good chance he gets. End this stupid debate over who actually owns the album.

"I can't believe you haven't given it to her yet," Miles slurs,.

James looks at him in alarm. How does Miles know about the album? He never told him. Is Miles reading his mind? Shit, does that mean he's dead? Miles can't read minds, right? Only dead people? Or, HOW does Miles know this?

Miles holds up his left hand, waggles the ring finger. "The ring, moron. The ring."

Oh. The other, bigger, secret in the Special Secret Sub Shipment. Right.

"Because you're too chickenshit, right?"

"No. Just .. timing's gotta be right."

Miles rolls his eyes so hard he actually loses balance, and has to put his hand down of the floor, reeling. But it's true.

"Maybe when Horace leaves. Things'll settle down." _Or, maybe when he gets back. Maybe there's always gonna be some reason to put it off._ Is he chickenshit? Kinda. He's scared to mess with a good thing. Scared to be laughed at. Scared to come right out and flat out say what he feels.

Horace is leaving in a few weeks. Amy's off to have the baby, and Horace is going with her. Actually, that's what this past month or so has all been about. Why things have been so crazy. Or, part of it, anyway.

Back in early May, Horace decided he'd leave with Amy – he doesn't want to miss the birth of his child. Well! You'd of thought Horace Goodspeed leaving the Dharma Initiative for eight days was the end of the world the way some of these hippies reacted to that news. Damn. Horace ain't nothin' more than the Head Hippie with his long hair, and his hands always in his pockets, as Juliet's always pointing out – elbowing James in the ribs when he comes to talk, head down, _hands in pockets_.

Truth of it is, as James quickly discovered, yeah, Horace does a pretty good job keeping things in line. Cause when he leaves, who's in charge? The jockeying started as soon as the news got out. Radzinsky wants it (God, please, no). Chang, too (and he cares way too much about his science crap to ever be good at bein' in charge). H even asked James if he wanted to take charge for a few weeks ("No fucking way."). So, there's that: no one person in charge. James'll deal with the Hostiles, Chang will run his stuff, and Stu will do whatever the hell it is he does.

"But we do need to work out procedures . . . for eventualities," Horace noted (head down, hands in pockets, using 'eventualities,' one of those ridiculous/sophisticated Horace words).

Next thing you know, everyone's running their asses off coming up with new procedures, protocol, measures for Every Possible Bad Thing you could think of. Oh, and since Horace is gonna be in Ann Arbor, why doesn't everyone just come up with a whole bunch of reports out the ass to give to the DeGroots? (Whoever the fuck they are.) Yeah. Good times.

So, James is turning and burning one Tuesday night back in late May. He's got piles of paper and crap all over the dining room table, and he hates this shit. Hates paperwork, hates reports, hates minuscule, trivial CRAP, and Juliet sits down across from him and announces: "I'm late."

_Well ain't that just fuckin' great, why the hell are you botherin' me about it? Can't you see I'm kinda busy here, and where the hell do you need to be on a Tuesday night? _He glances at his watch. _And if you're so damn worried about bein' late, why don't you stop yappin' to me about it, and get off your ass and get goin' where you need to be?_

Lucky for him, he doesn't say any of that shit he's thinking. He's actually learned not to just say the first damn stupid shit that comes to mind, and he's lucky he doesn't. She's still just sitting there, not making any effort whatsoever to get to whatever it is she's late for. She's staring at him, waiting for a response, so he kinda widens his eyes, shakes his head, does his best "And what do you want me to do about it?" face, looks at his watch again.

"I think. .." she starts. "I mean . . . I might . . ."

Oh, Jesus Christ, what the hell is her problem, stammering, stuttering, dancing around. About the only thing he's ever seen her get this worked up over is pregnant women. .. Oh. OH! OhholymotherofGodShitShitShit. How am I supposed to respond to this?

He wants to respond the "right" way. But what is the right way? Should he react with horror because she's so scared and cautious and, well, downright _**weird**_ about this whole deal – and that's when it's_** other **_women. But reacting with horror's probably not the way to go – he thinks that's probably not the response any woman wants to get from her potential baby daddy. Besides, he tried to react with horror once upon a time when Cassidy spilled the same news (or the same news – after the fact). But what if he acts all giddy and excited? And then she's pissed because "Don't you know what happens to pregnant women on this Island? They die." So . . .

OK, here's something he's learned on the job. Keep it to the facts. Let the other person do the talking. Just the facts, ma'am. "How late?"

"A few days."

And, OK, that doesn't help that much, because how does he know if a few days is a big deal? It's not like they spend any time talking about her menstrual cycles, because, well, they just don't. Not their kind of thing.

"No point in overreactin' if it don't mean nothing."

"Nope."

He places his chin in his hand, rubs the stubble there. "Hey, come here," he pats his lap, and she joins him there. "It'll all work out. One way or another. Whatever happens."

"Happens," she mumbles into his neck.

He chuckles at that. It's not what he meant, but somehow it's comforting. This happened already. Happened already to them. There's no way of knowing exactly _**what**_ happened, except to wait and find out.

For three days he's conflicted and ill-at-ease. He doesn't know what to think, what to hope for, what he wants. He knows what Sawyer would think and do: He'd be pissed. He'd think she tricked him into something. He'd be surly, and he'd catch the first sub out of here. He knows what Jim LaFleur would think and do: He'd be elated. He'd start dreaming of his new family. He'd be happy, and he'd order a ring for delivery on the next sub to dock. But hell if he knows what James Ford would think and do.

And they aren't talking about it. That bugs him, too. They've always talked about everything. They sit and read at night, and she's just sitting there biting her nails, clearly not reading. He looks at her, wants to comfort her. "Hey," he starts, and she looks up at him with a stern look that clearly means "Leave it the hell alone." And what should he do about that? Say "No, hey, this involves me, too, let's talk about it!" Or be thankful for the reprieve. 'Cause what's the point of talking about it until he knows something?

He orders a ring. Just like damned goody-two-shoe Jim LaFleur would do. When it comes, it's not like he has to give it to her, if he changes his mind. Miles catches him placing the order, and gives him shit, but with a huge goofy grin on his face, and James wonders . . . gets a kind of goofy grin on his face back.

It's the first day of June. James has got to finish this crap Horace is taking back to Ann Arbor. So, he's home, back at the dining room table, even though it's the middle of the afternoon, when Juliet comes busting in the front door.

"Dodged a bullet!" she announces, full of cheer.

Damn, his stomach drops to the floor. A bullet? He leaps up. Someone was shooting up the motor pool? And she's OK? And so hyped up to be where bullets buzz by again? And shit . .. what if something happened? He thinks of the ring that hasn't gotten here yet, the baby that may or may not exist . . .

With the back of her right hand against her forehead, Juliet whisks away imaginary sweat. "Phew!"

He gets it. Jesus, from "I'm late" when he thought she was tardy for some meeting to "Dodged a bullet!" when he thought she was shot at, is he an idiot or what?

Still hasn't figured out how he thinks about this whole thing, how he's supposed to respond. He mimics her, wipes the fake sweat from his brow. "Phew." They're staring at each other from across the room. Are they happy? Relieved? Disappointed? She breaks into a wry smile. "I didn't want to be the first victim," she says. Her smile fades, though. She nods, as if to convince herself of something. "Well, they need me back at the garage, but thought you'd want to know."

She's gone, and he realizes that what he feels is relief. He's relieved. Like 99% relieved.

That night, he's doing the dishes after supper. When he was about six, his first chore had been to dry dishes. One night he broke one, and his dad jumped down his throat, berating him. James had been thinking that drying dishes is maybe not the best first chore for a kid. And when their . . . daughter, yeah. . . was ready for her first chores, maybe he'd have her sweep up the floor. He keeps drying, and remembers his imaginary blonde six-year-old daughter in here sweeping up the floor while he dries dishes. But he's relieved. Like 90% relieved.

He finishes up in the kitchen, goes to read his book. Juliet's already there, actually reading, not chewing her nails, and gives him a big smile, that doesn't quite reach all the way to her eyes. They will need to talk about this, won't they? He picks up his book, _Voyage of the Dawn Treader_. Miles always gives him a hard time whenever he reads a "kids' book." He's been thinking when his daughter is old enough, he can read her Narnia, Little House . . . and Miles can't say anything about it. Well, you know what? He can still read kids' books, who cares what Miles thinks? He can read whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and he's relieved. Like 75%.

That night they make love, and there's so much they aren't saying to each other, and maybe if he ignores it, time will make it better. He's gonna stop thinking of all the good things he'd been thinking the past few days. Cause the truth is, he's relieved. Forget HOW MUCH relieved. Sure, he realizes, he's plenty disappointed, too, but however you do the math, relieved is going to win out – even if it's only 51-49.

When the sub came two weeks later – more than three weeks ago – it brought the ring (and the Barry White album with it). James stared and stared at the ring. Got caught several times by Miles and Jin both. Both were full of "helpful" advice. Miles made fun, but always with that same damn goofy grin. James knew Miles wanted him to ask. Jin was more serious. "Give her the ring. You love her, and you are happy. Give her the ring." James couldn't exactly argue with that, with the man who'd lost his wife.

Why hasn't he given her the ring? Chickenshit? Yes. Because Miles and Jin are so eager for him to do it and he wants to defy them? Yes, that, too. Because what's the point in messing with a good thing? Yep. Because he has all the time in the world? Sure.

"You working tomorrow?"

Miles' question brings him back to the present, drunk on the front porch of his home.

He tries to remember. What day is it? Is he working tomorrow? Juliet's already gone to bed. They've been working like dogs in the motor pool. Something about replacing the shocks on all the vans. Before turning in for the night she said, "For the next week, if you need me, I'll be flat on my back under a Dharma van." Miles responded with a crude joke about Juliet flat on her back.

To which she responded, "Guess who's teeny tiny weiner I saw today?"

"Wild guess. Jim's?" said Miles.

"Well, OK, technically, yes, but not the answer I was looking for."

"Did you just admit he's got a teeny . . ."

"Hey!" James protested. "It ain't tiny. You tell 'em, Jules."

She ignored him. "Yours, Miles! I changed your diaper today, buddy."

This – living in the past – never ceases to get weird.

"Hello?" Miles interrupts his thoughts again. "You working tomorrow?"

Yes, he is working tomorrow. He stands up and sways a little. He probably should turn in for the night. "See ya tomorrow, Miles. Don't get lost on your way home."

He creeps into the bedroom. Juliet's left the bedside lamp on. She's on her stomach, and he can only see one side of her face. The loose floorboard creaks when he steps on it.

"Thought you fixed that," she mumbles, without opening her eyes.

He should pull it up right now, pull out the ring and give it to her. Hell, he's drunk. Liquid courage. Instead he says, "Know what we never really talked about?"

"Whether or not Phil is a virgin?" She hasn't opened her eyes yet.

"Nope. Talked about that a few weeks back." They've talked about every person in this compound, most twice over. Phil's sex life actually comes up quite frequently – whenever James comes home pissed at him. _That sonuvabitch just needs to get laid._

James screws his eyes shut. No time to be thinking of that doofus. "No. What we never talked about. . . which we probably should of. . . More than we did, I mean . . . 'cause it bears talkin' about. . ."

"Out with it James." Eyes still closed.

"Well we never talked about having a baby."

Her eyes pop open. At least the one that's not face down in the pillow. One wide eye staring at him.

"I'm listening."

"It's just. I know we called it 'dodging a bullet,' and that's probably true, as far as it goes, we weren't plannin' on that or anything. . ." he's rambling again. He shifts his weight awkwardly, and the loose floorboard squeaks again.

"I thought for sure you were back here fixing that thing last week," she says.

He ignores her. "Nice try. Don't try to get me off subject. So, what about it? I think it might be OK."

"I think you might be drunk."

"So what? Liquid truth."

"I think it's an important subject. And I think we should be sober –_ both_ of us."

"All right. When you wanna talk about it then?"

"Later."

"Like when?" he urges

"Friday at 11:30 AM," she answers, voice dripping sarcasm.

He's too drunk to catch the sarcasm, though, so gives her answer serious consideration. "Nope. Next sub is comin' in Friday morning. Full of new recruits. Gotta have the 'Namaste' welcome barbeque and everything."

"Well, then, how about that night, are you free then?" He still can't catch the sarcasm.

"Yep. I'll put it on my calendar." He can't see the future – the part that matters, anyway. He doesn't know he'll spend Friday night reaming out Jack, plotting to spring Sayid from Dharma jail, waving to Kate on her porch. Instead he double checks, "Promise? We'll talk about it?"

"Promise," she mumbles into the pillow. Her eyes are closed again (the one he can see, anyway). He turns to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he returns, he strips to his boxers, t-shirt, sits on the edge of the bed. It's almost midnight. It's almost July 9. Another July 8 come and gone. If only he knew it was his last July 8. Not literally. No, he'll live to see another July 8, but next time it comes around? July 8 will have lost its spot as the worst day of his life.

If he knew that, if he could tell the future (the part that matters), maybe he'd dig up the floorboard like he's been itching to do. Maybe he'd shake her awake, and say they needed to talk about this important stuff now. Maybe he'd shake her awake, and just profess how much she meant to him, how much he loved her (she knew that, right?). Maybe he'd just hold her tight, and live in the moment.

He can't tell the future, though (not the part that matters), so his last words on his last official July 8 are only "Schooch over, your hoggin' up the whole damn bed."

**Question: Anyone still reading? If so, another question: I think the next chapter at least (and some after) have the potential to be very long. What's best? Update in short but more frequent spurts (but stray slightly from the one July 8 per chapter structure) or upload in one whole shebang, after an extended delay? Any preferences? Bueller?**


	6. July 8, 2008

**July 8, 2008**

James sits on his couch, sipping a beer, watching TV. Nearly seven months in, and he still can't believe modern TV. The wealth of channels. Pause live TV! Rewind! Fast forward! On Demand! Hi Def! Forget the lack of TV in 1970s Dharmaville (aside from what Radzinsky could sometimes pull in at the Flame). This was a huge improvement over 2004 TV as James remembered it.

Despite all this variety, he spends most nights watching Mary Tyler Moore on Nick at Nite. The 1970s clothes, hairstyles, kitchens . . . they comfort him. And Mary Richards, with her combination of smarts, competence, and underlying vulnerability . . . well, James particularly likes her.

He sips his beer again. Mary and Mr. Grant are bickering about something when there's a knock at James' front door. Damn. He'd recognize that knock anywhere. James hauls himself off the couch.

"Whaddaya want, Miles?" he barks at the door, before he opens it.

"Just checking to see if you're OK," Miles calls back.

James is at the door now, opens it. "Why the hell wouldn't I be? I got a roof over my head don't I? Cold beer? TV? A job? What more could a man ask for?" (and why had he ever tricked himself into believing he deserved any more than what he has now?)

Miles shifts his weight from foot to foot, uneasy. "Just, you know . . . it's today, thought you'd want company." He cranes his neck, looks over James' shoulder into his small living room.

"Whatcha lookin' for, Miles?"

"Booze. Aren't you gonna drink yourself into oblivion tonight? Isn't that what you always do on July 8?" James stands there, doesn't answer. "Cause if that's what you're gonna do, I'm cool with it and all. Just thought you wouldn' t want to do it alone. I think she'd want. . ."

James' head snaps up. "What did you say?"

"Just let me in, man." James is still a bit stunned, and Miles uses the moment to slide past him and into the house. He heads for the kitchen, opens the fridge. There are three beers there. He starts opening cabinets.

"What the hell are you doing?" James has recovered, and stomped into the kitchen after him.

"Looking for where you've got all the booze hidden."

"I ain't got any hidden booze."

"Mmm hmm." Miles doesn't believe him. "Mary Tyler Moore?" he asks, noting the TV, making himself at home on the couch. "Cool. Can I have a beer?"

He isn't going to leave. He's going to sit here all night, isn't he? Sometimes it's a pain in the ass having a friend. "Fine. Fine. You can have a beer." Miles stays seated. He's expecting James to get his beer for him.

James tramps into the kitchen. "I hope you're happy," he says to the empty room, the universe in general, Juliet specifically. "This is your damn fault."

He talks to her a good bit, and he knows it's crazy, talking to a dead person, but it's probably the only thing keeping him sane. And it's not like he carries on extended conversations, just a few observations here and there. _Tough day at work today. _Or,_ Spied on your sister again today. She seems OK. Still ain't figured out how to meet her. What to say. _

He's angry at Juliet sometimes, too. Like now. Like when he feels he has to put up with Miles. That's her fault.

He never quite knew what happened. They flew off the island, and Frank had plans to get them to Guam or something. James didn't care. Figured they wouldn't make it. Raft, helicopter, submarine . . . why would the airplane work when nothing else did? So when the plane started leaking fuel about an hour in, James was prepared. He was fine with it. He didn't care what happened.

Frank crash landed them, though. Now they just had to sit, float, and hope for the best. James didn't care. Rescue, no rescue, whatever. He'd probably never really care about anything again. It wasn't more than 12 hours floating on the wreckage when some fishermen picked them up. Richard spoke some language to them, they took them to some village somewhere, Richard made some calls. Somewhere in there, James was sure that Richard, Miles, Kate, and Frank worked up some sort of plan. James didn't care. He'd do what they told him, sure, but he didn't care.

Miles and Kate (traveling Ajira under an assumed name), just slid right back into society. Kate had been gone only a week. Richard worked up some of his connections. He whisked Claire and James to another island, where they were "rescued" (again). Three years after the crash of Oceanic 815 and two new survivors found? Oceanic was dealing with enough of a PR nightmare since four of the Oceanic 6 were presumed dead. Claire was addled. James didn't care. Oceanic gave each a shit ton of money to keep their mouths shut. Fine. James didn't care.

Frank Lapidus, the pilot, was the only official survivor of the crash of Ajira Flight 316.

Oceanic flew James and Claire to LA, put them up in a swanky hotel. James took a hot shower. First one in a while. He remembered his first night in Dharmaville. First shower after a week of marching through the jungle, time flashes, danger. Dharmaville. Juliet. _Takin' a shower now, baby. Wish you were here. _First time he spoke to her aloud.

He opened the mini-bar and had at it. Oceanic's dime. And even if it wasn't, James didn't care. God, he got drunk that night. He had to call down to the front desk to have them send up more booze. Had to act halfway sober when they brought it up.

When he wakes up the next morning (or maybe the next afternoon), he's so fucking hungover. He supposes he's never had that much to drink. God, he feels like death on a cracker. Shit warmed over. He crawls to the bathroom and lifts the toilet lid to retch a nasty, alcohol-smelling, foul liquid into the potty. Miserable. But for once at least, his physical state matches his mental one.

He lies against the cool tile floor. He sleeps some more, but wakes when the door to the bathroom squeaks open. He cracks open his eyes. The wee bit of light sears his brain. Like a timeflash.

"You're a state," he hears. Opens his eyes again.

Juliet comes in, lowers the toilet lid, sits down. Reaches over to the towel rack for a washcloth. She runs it under the sink, wrings it out, and holds it out to him. It's dripping on the lap of her blue motor pool jumpsuit.

James isn't crazy. He knows she's dead. This is a hallucination, a drunk fever dream. He knows she's dead. God how he knows it. He knows how quickly her body lost its warmth, how soon it began to stiffen. He knows how long he dug that hole. How his muscles burned, how he would've just kept digging, except Miles said "Think that's enough."

He knows he held her feet and Miles held her shoulders as they lowered her down. He knows he ignored the tears running down Miles' cheeks, because hell if he was gonna comfort Miles. He knows he took a spade of dirt and held it over the open grave, he knows he started on her feet. He knows her feet were covered, her legs, her stomach, her shoulders, her head. He knows he was working on autopilot until he saw some uncovered blonde hair.

**_He knows she's dead. _**This hallucination, this fever dream handing him a cold washcloth . . .

"If you're gonna show up in my bathroom, why'd you gotta wear that?" he weakly indicates the jumpsuit.

"I told you last night. Too drunk to remember? I start at the motor pool today."

Ah. It's not a hallucination. Not a fever dream. It's a vivid memory. God how he wishes it was a time flash instead of a memory.

This is July 9, 1974. He sat out and drank beer, first with Miles, next with Juliet. He kept on drinking after she left, and woke up the next morning completely hungover. And when she showed up to help him out he asked her, "If you're gonna show up in my bathroom, why'd you gotta wear that?"

Juliet – the memory of Juliet – is still holding out the washcloth. "Take this. You'll feel better." He stares. If he takes it – will she disappear? He risks it – he took it back in 1974, after all. He holds the cool cloth to his face. That feels good.

"You've either got to call in sick, or you need to get up and get to security," Memory Juliet says.

"Fuck it," he says. Because that's what he said then, and because, really, there is no security he needs to get to._** She**_ is his security, and she's not even real. So, fuck it.

"We're counting on you," she says.

"Who's 'we'?" he asks, because that's what he asked back then, trying to goad her into admitting she needed his help.

"Well, Miles for one. Don't know how Miles is going to get by without your help." She is (was) being sarcastic. James doesn't answer.

She gets up off the toilet lid, crouches down in front of him, takes his chin in her hand. It feels so good. Her hand is warm, smooth, firm on his face. (_He'd wrapped her in a blanket, so he didn't have to see her dead body, but her arms stuck out. Her hands were so, so cold_). He shuts his eyes, savors her warm touch on his face. She shakes him slightly, and he opens his eyes. She's staring right at him. "We're counting on you, James."

God, she's so close. If he moved an inch, he could kiss her. He could reach his hand up to stroke her face. But she's not real. He knows that. And this is 1974 Juliet he's dealing with. If he kissed her and/or stroked her face, she'd slap him silly. He actually chuckles at the thought. Huh. He'd chuckled back in 1974 at the thought that anyone was counting on him.

So, Memory Juliet responds to his laughter. "This isn't a game, James. You know that as well as I do." This Vivid Memory Juliet has no idea what's in store for her. What would she say if she knew that three years later he'd be drunk and trying to wheedle her into starting a family with him? That thought brings up a strangled sob, and he puts his face in his hands.

He didn't sob in 1974, and the memory is gone.

He's passed out on the bathroom floor. There's a knock at the door to his room Damn. He'd recognize that knock anywhere. James hauls himself off the bathroom floor.

"Whaddaya want, Miles?" he barks at the door, before he opens it.

"Just checking to see if you're OK," Miles calls back.

James opens the door. Miles is just standing there. He looks lost, confused, uneasy.

"Yeah, well I'm fine and dandy," James answers, and it's a testament to Miles' lost state that he seems indifferent to the horrid, acrid scent of James' breath.

"OK, then," says Miles. It's not like him to give up without a fight, to turn around and head the opposite direction, but there's no fight left in Miles. He turns to leave, but before he does, he says, "She didn't even like my mom."

What the hell is he talking about? Who? And Miles knows he doesn't give a shit, right? About anything?

""Juliet." Miles answers the question James didn't ask, and at the mention of her name, James should grab Miles by his skinny little throat and tell him to get out and never come back again because how DARE HE? How dare he mention her name?

"She didn't like my mom," Miles isn't looking at James, not even really talking to him. Just talking to the hotel hall, the universe in general.

But this is an odd fact. How could it even be true? Juliet was over at Lara Chang's at least one night a week. Always doing crafts or macramé or crochet or shit like that. Nothing she ever did at home.

Miles is just staring off into space, he keeps talking. He's going to say everything he has to say, because he needs to say it. "First week we were there. I told her all about my crappy childhood, my mom, how she was bitter towards my dad, lonely, never had any friends. I guess Juliet just thought she could use a friend. She hated all that crafty stuff my mom was into. But she stuck with it anyway."

Now it's James' turn to mutter some of his thoughts. "I don't think she ever 100% bought into 'what happened, happened.' I think she always thought she thought she could change things." Her fatal downfall, quite literally.

"Nothing changed, Jim," Miles practically moans. "Nothing. My mom is still dead, still died thinking my dad left her. We didn't change one fucking thing. God damn it!" Miles is sad and angry now, and he's said all he needs to say. With that, with tears now welling in his eyes, he turns to leave. He shakes his head and turns back. "Have a good life, boss." Now he's crying for real.

_Don't know how Miles is going to get by without your help._

James remembers Memory Juliet this morning in the bathroom, and ain't that just a thing? All right, fuck, fine. He'll do this for her.

"Hey Miles," he calls out, stops Miles in his tracks. "Wanna get loaded? Oceanic's payin'"

And the two of them drink together for two days straight. When they get in their cups enough, they actually start reminiscing. Safe stuff. Things that happened on the job. They tread carefully, and stories come to a quick halt whenever Jin's name comes up. Juliet's name never does, because they stay FAR FAR away from anything that might possibly involve her.

Oceanic starts making noises, hinting around that it's time to leave the hotel. James wants to call their bluff, he'll stay here on their tab forever if they'll let him. Miles says not to sweat it. He has money – somehow; James doesn't ask.

They just switch the bill. Miles is paying now, and they stay another week.

Richard shows up at the end of that week. There was a time James wished he could come to the future and ask Richard if they always lived in the past. That time is now. But it's no longer Jim LaFleur parleying with Richard Alpert . No longer two men, respected, leaders, in charge. Instead it's a drunk, puffy, grieving James Ford staring at a rapidly graying Richard.

"I heard you two were holed up here, drinking the place dry," Richard offers.

"Yeah? Where'd ya hear that?" James challenges.

"I know people." Of course. Others. Always Others.

"If you all ever want to rejoin the living, give me a call." Richard hands Miles a sheet of paper then leaves.

Miles and James drink for another day. Miles breaks first, calls Richard. James never knows how it happens, but it comes down to this: Frank Lapidus has a buddy from his days fighting in Vietnam. The buddy runs a fishing charter boat, and needs guys to work security. James doesn't care. This sounds like a load of shit to him. Richard says the job's in Key West, and James starts to pay attention. That's pretty damn close to Miami. Maybe the reason he's here, maybe the reason he's survived, is to find Rachel. Maybe that's what he's supposed to do.

Miles and James take the job.

Here they are now, nearly seven months in, and James still hasn't had the guts to talk to Rachel. It took him six weeks to make the trip to Miami, to sit in the car outside her house and watch her park her car, walk in. He's followed her a few times, and feels very creepy and stalkerish about it. He keeps thinking the moment will come. The perfect moment to step out and introduce himself. Introduce himself and say . . . what exactly?

_I used to be a con man. I was a criminal. Yeah, and now I work as a "security officer" on a fishing charter. Well, that's not true. Earl, Frank's buddy, doesn't need security, he just needs some extra deckhands. And here's the funny thing: between con man and deckhand I was Head of Security for the Dharma Initiative. Ever heard of it? No? Well, maybe that's because this was the 1970s. Weird, huh? Why am I telling you all this? Because your sister is (was) the love of my life. She's dead by the way. Thought you should know._

Miles has suggested he just lie to her. Find out from Richard what exactly Rachel knows, and then make something up. "Tell her you're a P.I. investigating Mittelos Bioscience. Just lie about it. No problem-o. Besides, isn't that what you do? Lie to chicks?"

"It's what I _used_ to do." He's not doing it anymore, and even if he did, Rachel Carlson would be the last person on this Earth he'd try to con – for any reason.

And how's this for stuck: tell the truth and be laughed at as a crazy person. Or lie to the one person he can never lie to.

So he just goes to his job every morning, comes home to his tiny house (cabin, really, and it makes him feel at home, with her, just a tiny little bit). The job's actually a pretty good one. Nominally, they're security for "Earl's Boat Charters." But Earl doesn't need much security. Sometimes if the members of a charter party have a bit too much to drink, fights need to be broken up. Truth is, Miles and James are just glorified deck hands. Earl doesn't even have to pay them. James has his Oceanic money, and Miles has money coming from somewhere. James hasn't gotten up the gumption to ask where.

They get to the boat before dawn every morning. Load bait or beer or both. Help with the lines, bait hooks for squeamish chicks, swab down fish guts, any odd or menial job Earl has for them. It's back-breaking and grueling and honest and just what James wants. He's usually so exhausted when he gets home at night that he has little time to think.

And Earl, who says he saw some "weird shit in 'Nam" doesn't question them. Lets them do their thing. They're free labor, and do a good job, who's he to question James' sudden, violent outburst when he catches Miles dancing to Barry White with a group of older women? James' ears pricked up when he heard

_I know there's only, only one like you  
__There's no way they could have made two  
You're all I'm living for  
Your love I'll keep for evermore  
You're the first, your the last, my everything_

And by the time they got to

_I see so many ways that I  
Can love you till the day I die_

He was out on the fantail, pulling the CD from the changer. Something got stuck, and he ended up yanking the entire player from its plug, and throwing it to the deck. Several pieces broke off, and the crowd stood staring and silent. James stalked off to the bow of the ship.

See, Earl didn't mind shit like that. And he didn't mind that Miles went out to sit with him. And he didn't mind that his two deckhands spent the rest of the afternoon talking to each other or staring into the ocean. He never knew what happened to them. Never asked, but he understood "weird shit."

So, he didn't hear Miles approach James on the starboard side. "Sorry, man. I wasn't thinking."

"I probably over-reacted," James admitted.

Apologies given and accepted from both sides, they stared at the ocean for a long time.

"Guess she won," Miles finally spoke. James turned to him, curious. What was he talking about? "Juliet," Miles continued. She hovered over their lives constantly, but they almost never spoke her name. "She. . . Well, she had. . . she had. .. " Miles choked back a sob. "She had the Barry White album when . . . She had the Barry White album last." He was rubbing his face, wiping away the tears.

James decided then, if he hadn't decided already, that he'd stick with Miles forever. For as long as it took. It's not so much that he remembered _her_ as that he remembered _them_. Only person in the world who did. So he'd stick with Miles and his memories. Shit, if it took till the hereafter, he'd keep Miles by his side.

So, now, on July 8, 2008, he really has only himself to blame that Miles is sitting here with him. And he can throw in some blame Miles' way. And Juliet's. After all, she's the one who told him Miles needed him. Sure, that was in 1974, and, sure, it was in jest, but . . . it makes it like she's here. Like she's a part of them, now. So, yeah, it's her fault, too.

They watch a second episode of Mary Tyler Moore. They keep sitting for Sanford and Sons. Miles is proud of himself, he's there for his friend on the anniversary of the worst day of his life. James plays along. July 8, 1976 was pretty shitty (both days he lived it), but it ain't the worst day of his life. Not by a long shot.

As long as Miles doesn't show up on July 16, James is fine and dandy.

**Next: July 16, 2008**


	7. July 16, 2008

****

July 16, 2008

James hopes he's played his cards right. He's a quarter of the way through a bottle of rum, and he's feeling confident Miles won't show up. As long as James can drink in peace (yeah, right) and quiet. All he cares about.

Honestly? Honestly, he's not even sure today's even the right day (another time travel quirk), but he's decided that when you lose the woman you love, you have every right to "celebrate" both the day she was ripped from your arms AND the day she died in them. So, he's planning another day of drinking himself into a stupor in January.

Of course, a benefit to all this time travel bizarreness, this not knowing for sure what the date of the worst day of his life is – the benefit is that Miles doesn't know, either. So, James has the night to himself (he hopes).

* * *

He had to play along today. Miles picked him up in the morning, and they were at Earl's boat at dawn. Today their chore was replacing light bulbs. They always did what Earl asked them to – with one glaring exception.

"Outboard's seized up," Earl stated one day. "Either of you know anything about fixing it?"

Miles and James shrugged.

"Not much different than a car. Y'all know anything about fixing cars?"

James just stared his mean, sullen stare before stalking off.

"What did I say?" asked Earl, confused.

"Don't worry about it," Miles answered.

Earl shrugged. He didn't worry about it. As far as he figured, whatever happened to these two guys happened. Didn't matter to him. His buddy Frank Lapidus vouched for them, and they were good workers. If for whatever reason engine repair was off-limits, so be it.

Today, though, the assignment had been light bulbs. James had to act like it was just a normal day. Normal normal normal. Nothing to it. To act otherwise would tip Miles off.

They took out a "mixed" group. Sometimes they took out large parties – reunion groups, families on vacation, bachelor parties. Today was "mixed" – one father/son set out fishing, two other guys, buddies on vacation out to drink and pretend to fish, and one solo dude, just taking a break. The solo guy tried to chat James up. Passengers often did. Small talk – "How long you worked here?" "Where you from originally?" "You ever tried fly fishing out West?" That sort of thing. Since "be nice to the customer" was one of Earl's few rules, James usually tried to answer politely, in one word - or less, when he could get away with nothing more than a nod or shake of the head. So when today's Mr. Solo started in with "You lived in Key West long?" James simply shook his head and walked off, pretending to be busy, busy, busy.

He made it through the day. Even attempted a wee bit of chat with Miles on the drive home. Miles dropped him off, and James managed a hearty, cheery, double slap on the roof of Miles' car: "See you tomorrow, Miles," SLAP SLAP, and Miles was off. James watched him drive down the street, and make the turn onto the main road. When he felt the coast was clear, James walked down the road, around the corner, and into the liquor store. He had beer at home, but tonight called for more than that.

He stopped at the whiskey, grabbed two bottles, and headed for the register. He stopped at a display of rum. He NEVER drank rum. Why? Duh. For the same reason he hadn't picked up a book since he got back. For the same reason he felt like throwing up when Earl asked if he knew anything about car repair. For the same reason he blew a gasket when Miles started playing Barry White music.

Next to the rum bottles was a cardboard cutout of a beach, white sand, blue ocean, green trees. Yep, that looks right (no smoke monsters, wrecked slave ships, or electromagnetic death holes, but close enough). Shouldn't today be the day of all days to drink rum?

He grabbed two bottles, walked back to replace the whiskey on the shelf. A man standing there now looked at him in recognition.

"James, right?" he asked.

"Who's askin'?" he grumbled. Jesus Fucking Christ, leave me alone.

"I was on the boat today?" The man sounded tentative, unsure.

Ah yeah. Mr. Solo. Well, Earl didn't have rules about being nice to clients _**off **_the boat, so James said, "You really askin' me? You don't know if you was on the boat or not? Are you stupid?"

"No. No, I was there," Mr. Solo said, bashful, chagrined. "So, whatcha celebrating?" he asks, gesturing at James' rum bottles.

Fucking city slicker. James wanted to punch him in his pale, mealy-mouthed, mamby pamby face. But getting into a fight at the liquor store would just mean a night in jail. No, not what he wanted. He put the whiskey bottles back. "Well, nice knowin' ya," he grumbled in a way that clearly indicated it was no such thing. He paid for the whiskey, and headed out the door.

Dark clouds were heading in, and a slight drizzle fell. Good. Tonight couldn't be a beautiful night. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and as James turned onto his block, the rain began falling harder.

* * *

He's been sitting on his front stoop for the last hour. He's more than a quarter of the way through his first bottle of rum. The rain is coming down in earnest now, and the slight overhang above his front door is keeping him moderately dry. The wind is picking up, and from time to time a gust blows rain onto him. He's starting now to get pretty wet.

He heads inside, drinking from the bottle as he goes. He's swaying, uneasy. Thunder crashes. The storm is here. Good. He slumps onto the couch, drinks again. A long, slow swig. He's getting through this bottle pretty good. How much is he gonna have to drink to make her (or the vivid memory of her) appear? He drinks again.

Maybe he should read. All his life, he's read books. They are a way to escape. Stick your nose in a book, read about a different world, someone else's life, and added benefit – no one bothers you when you're busy reading. The fall after his parents died, he probably read a book a day. Reading is the perfect solitary pursuit.

But it stopped being solitary. There were the books you couldn't put down: "Are you coming to bed, or are you going to stay up all night reading?" There were page turners: "Yeah, yeah, I'll be in to dinner in a minute." There were bad books: "You read this one yet? Well, don't. It's crap." There were books with twist endings "Lalalalalala! Can't hear you! Shut up! Don't tell me ANYTHING about it till I finish!" There were books that were so good that you read a chapter, then she read one, and you did, then she did.

There isn't a single damn book in his house now. Anger engulfs him and he throws the half-empty bottle of rum against the wall. Glass shatters and rum drips down the otherwise blank wall. That's where their floor-to-ceiling bookcase would be. Handsome, leather-bound classics in neat rows and rag-eared paperbacks stacked on their sides. The bottom two shelves would have kids books, and he'd sit cross-legged on the floor reading to their daughter, _Goodnight Moon _and _Hungry Caterpillar_ and _Richard Scarry_ and _Berenstain Bears_ and _Little House on the Prairie_ and _Harry Potter_ until she got too old to want to read with dad anymore. Juliet would sit on the couch.

Tears leak from his eyes as he unscrews the cap on his second bottle. How much more does he need to drink before her memory will show up and sit and read with him? She's not real, so it shouldn't fucking matter that there's no books here. He guzzles some more, and the leaking tears roll down his face.

It's time for Mary Tyler Moore, so might as well sit and watch that while he waits. He turns on the TV.

_Who can turn the world on with her smile?  
Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?_

Horseshit nonsense. And now Mary's throwing that damn hat into the air, and grinning her big, too-wide smile. Keep your fucking hat on Mary, it's Minneapolis, for Christ sake! He throws the remote at the TV, cracks it, a spidering crack running diagonally from bottom right to upper left.

Mary and Murray are kvetching about some minor problem. James throws his head back and downs half the bottle. He falls face first into the couch. Mary's still on, cracked, fuzzy, but here comes fucking Ted Baxter.

There's a knock at the door. He'd recognize that knock anywhere. Jesus fucking damn Christ. It's Miles. Well, maybe this is good. James is so fucking sad and angry and maybe he can take it out on Miles. Isn't that what friends are for?

Another knock at the door. He'd recognize that knock anywhere. Wait, no, this doesn't sound like Miles' knock. That's what you get for being fucking wasted. Don't even recognize your best friend's knock. James hauls himself off the couch.

"Whaddaya want, Miles?" he barks at the door, before he opens it. Miles is, for once, silent.

James opens the door, and is staring down the barrel of a gun.

"James Ford?" asks the voice on the other end of the gun. James looks up. Shit. Mr. Solo? Did he follow him here from the liquor store? Is this about James being an ass to him? Cause he can explain that.

"Yeah?" What the fuck is going on here?

Solo waves the gun and James takes a tumbling step backward. Solo stays on the front stoop. "My name is George Duckett. You killed my father."

Ah. Ah. Of course. James' brain is pickled. "Hold on now, Inigo Montoya," James starts, trying to buy some time.

Probably a mistake. You don't joke around with a man who blames you for the death of his father. James should know that.

If this was a movie and James was the hero, now would be the time for George Duckett to start his soliloquy. How he found James, how he plans to make him pay. During the soliloquy James would engineer a way out of this mess.

This isn't a movie, and James isn't a hero.

George is standing in the rain, hair dripping wet, gripping the gun. He looks uneasy, as if he's facing a moment of truth. Right. James was George once upon a time. September 22, 2004. "It'll come back around." It sure fucking will.

He hears the gun go off before he feels anything. Three shots. One to the shoulder, two to the gut. He falls. As best he can tell, George turns around and leaves. James is lying in a pool of blood. It's warm and sticky. He can hear Mary and Rhoda bickering about something on the TV. The laugh track starts up. James passes out.

_Hello - DETECTIVE._ It's Jin, alive and well, wearing a shit-eating grin. What the hell are you talking about, Jin-bo?

James is awake. Barely. Alive. Barely. George Duckett is gone. James is up on his arms. He's trying to reach the phone, but passes out from the pain.

His life force is sapping. This is it. He's not gonna make it.

_If you unplug it, and plug it back in again, the candy just drops right down._ Juliet in a little black dress and doctor's coat. Hey, baby. It's me.

James rallies. Can he make it till dawn? That's when Miles will be here to pick him up for work. He passes out again.

_What is your deal Jim? You wanna die alone? _Miles. Miles in a police station. Funny.

There's a pounding on the door. James stirs, but has no more energy. He'd recognize that knock anywhere. It's Miles.

"Jim?" Miles has opened the unlocked door. "Oh my God! Jim! James!" He's on his knees, cradling James' head in his lap. "LaFleur! Jesus Christ, talk to me, man!" James manages a weak moan.

Miles is on the phone, dialing 911. James supposes there's an ambulance ride. And Miles is there with him. James has lost so much blood. He doesn't remember his arrival at the hospital. He doesn't see the trauma team go to work, the blood pumped into him. He doesn't remember the hour and a half it took to get his vitals steady, and get him on an elevator up to the OR.

The elevator doors open, and the team wheels the gurney out onto the floor. . .

AND WAIT! WAIT WAIT!

"His pressure's dropping," an alarmed nurse says.

WAIT! It's Juliet! Juliet getting on the elevator. Juliet and some kid . . .

"Mr. Ford. Mr. Ford. We need you to stay still!" A nurse shoves a mask onto his face. He hears the elevator shut behind him. She's gone, right?

"OK. Looks like we got him back."

He's being wheeled down the hall to an OR. And fuck. It happens again. There's Jack, headed this way. Jack! I want Jack! I want Jack to do the surgery. He mostly hated St. Jackass, until he didn't. And here he is now, in his suit, but still, he's just wandering down the hall. Can't Jack do it?

"Please calm down, sir."

James misses the look passing between his nurse and the ER doctor accompanying him to surgery. The nurse slides more sedative into his IV. He's out again, and he doesn't come to until they wheel him back into a recovery room. He's coming to, or he thinks he is, and Sun and Jin are there, they're smiling and happy and well-dressed, and . .. hey! Hey, come back! Jin grins at him. "See you there." The fuck?

James swims up out of the fog and the anesthesia and the pain and the blood loss. Miles is there. Of course. This is the real world. A real hospital. But when he was out, he imagined a hospital where Juliet rides up and down elevators with her arm around some kid's shoulder, and Jack wanders the halls confident and in charge, where Sun and Jin smile at him. He wants to go back there. Not here. Not here where Miles is looking at him full of concern and worry and the doctor is talking to him about a lifetime of dialysis and colostomy bags and pain and drugs.

"End of the road for me, partner," he wheezes to Miles when the doc leaves.

"Don't give up, Jim," Miles begs.

"Don't sound much like much of a life, hooked up to bags and hoses. Not that I'm livin' much of a life now."

James says as much to the doctor next time he comes around. He doesn't want all this stuff keeping him alive. They make him wait 48 hours. He's still got the same idea, and so they pull his feeding tube. He's in and out of consciousness. Miles is there pretty much any time his brain manages to surface.

His brain is surfacing now, and what the fuck? Miles is holding his hand? Shame James isn't gonna live long enough to give Miles shit about this. His brain makes it to the top, he's fully conscious now. And it's not Miles holding his hand.

"Hey, Freckles," he manages a whisper.

"Sawyer," she smiles back at him.

"Miles tattled on me, huh?"

"Something like that."

"You gonna try to talk me out of this?"

"I would if I thought it would do any good.'

He squeezes her hand. God help him, but he's glad she's here. Live together, die alone, blah blah blah. Whatever. It's just, she reminds him of a time when he was someone else. He'd like to tell her – _you're the first person who treated me like a human being. Thanks. _But he doesn't have the strength. The hand squeeze will have to do. He's saving up his strength to tell her something else.

He slips back into the abyss. When he's back, Kate's still at his bedside. Miles is at the foot of the bed, looking like someone kicked his puppy. James waits. Gathers strength.

"Freckles," he croaks. His hands are weak, but he gestures to her to get closer. The best he can do is whisper in her ear.

"Sawyer. Don't." She's asking him not to give up, but it's too late for that.

"Just do it, Freckles," and he's used up the last of his energy. Back into the abyss.

* * *

Kate wonders how much time he's got left. The doctors told them it could be any hour now. She'll need to take care of Sawyer's favor before she heads back to LA. She hopes Richard can pull a few more strings with her probation.

The machines at Sawyer's bedside start a new beeping alarm. Miles looks up from the foot of the bed. Nurses are rushing into the room. Sawyer's eyes fly open. "It's OK," he says, and he's very lucid. Kate shakes her head. How can it be OK? How can it?

She thinks he's going back out, but his eyes open again. "It's OK. I'm a cop." So much for lucidity.

The beeps have turned into one long, loud, monotonic whine. He's gone.

* * *

**I think I'm going to mess with the format for a little bit, and then get back to it. So, anyway, expect the next chapter from another POV. Spoiler Alert!: Kate's POV.**

**Thanks for reading, and send along a review if you are. We'll shortly be moving along to "sideways" time.**


	8. 1999

**_This has been on my computer forever. I think I never published it because I was going to write some chapter about Kate's favor for Sawyer. But I didn't. Probably won't. FYI, she was supposed to track down Juliet's sister. Not that it really matters for this story. So, anyway, thought I'd just go ahead and put this up since it's just been sitting around waiting. _**

* * *

_**July 8, 1999**_

Jim watches the world speed by from the passenger window. His coffee's cooled to where he can take a nice, big slug.

"So, what was her name?" his partner asks.

"Dammit, Ana, it wasn't nothin' like that."

"Mmm hmm. So you look like you pulled an all-nighter, because . . .?"

He rubs his right eye up under his sunglasses. He shifts in his seat, rubs his chin against the walkie clipped to his shoulder. Ana just drives on in silence. Finally, he answers her, "Remember that chick who came in a last week? Going through the nasty divorce? Needed a protective order on the ex?"

"Vaguely," Ana says dismissively. Yeah. Paperwork. Neither of them like it very much, but Ana is particularly disdainful.

"Well, anyway, I guess the ex has been creepin' around. Lady can't prove it or nothin', but she was scared to be home alone, and . . ."

"So you _slept _with her? Figures."

"Nah. I told ya. Nothin' like that. I just parked my car in front of her house and watched out."

"On your own time?"

Jim simply nods.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Ford?"

"Nothing's _wrong_ with me. I just . . . I don't know . . . felt I owed it to her or somethin'."

Ana harrumphs. He can't expect her to understand. This Phillips woman, though. He . . . yeah. Just felt like he needed to watch out for her. Can't explain it to Ana. Just weird sometimes, you meet someone and just feel . . . well, who knows what.

"So you gonna stake out her house until what? Husband dies or something?"

"No. No. She's movin' to Albuquerque. Besides some friend of hers is comin' in today and staying with her for the next week or so till she moves."

"You know an awful lot about someone you aren't sleeping with."

"I . ." He glances over at her, can't see her behind her reflective shades. No, he can't even begin to explain.

She says, "Now I got to deal with the consequences. Partner who's gonna be too tired to count on."

"Hell, Ana. Like it's so fucking dangerous what we've got on the agenda today."

"Never know, Ford, never know."

Their assignment today? They get this one once a month at least. Safety Lecture.

They're on their way to some day camp. Kids off for the summer learning to swim and make lanyards and do whatever shit it is that normal kids do. He and Ana ride up in their black and white, talk all about safety. What to do if you get lost. Who knows their mom and dad's work numbers. 911. Stranger danger, blah blah blah blah blah.

Funny thing is, Ana's actually really good at this shit. Kids love her, and even if she's still all uptight and curt like normal, she somehow always connects with the kids. Jim teased her once, "What, Ana? You had a kid in another life or somethin'?"

She looked at him funny when he asked that. Then she looked confused. "I . . . I . . . I don't know," she said in a quiet voice so unlike her it made Jim feel he'd somehow stepped onto some very shaky ground. He dropped it.

So, today, like every time they do the kiddie patrol, Ana's giving her spiel in front of a herd of eight year olds "Now, who knows their address?," she asks, managing to sound hardass and kid friendly all at once. About five kids stick their hands high in the air, some waving them around.

Jim waits back at the car. The kids get to come in, one at a time, and sit with him in the car. Same old, same old. Always the same. "Can I turn on the lights?" "Can I turn on the siren?" "Have you ever shot someone?" "How many bad guys have you arrested?" "Can I see your handcuffs?" Always the same. Today no different.

Kid number six. "Can I turn on the siren?" he asks.

"Sure, kid, sure. Right here." Jim shows him the switch.

He flips it, on goes the siren. "Cool!" Kid Six says. Jim waits. Next question will be about the lights, probably. The kid says, "That sounds like a D sharp and a G, I think."

_The hell? _Jim turns to look at Kid Six, and just about falls into the boy's eyes. "What?" Jim gasps. Not cause he gives a shit about what note his siren is. Fuck that. He just can't think right with that kid looking at him with those eyes. Tunnel vision, staring into the abyss. Prettiest eyes he's ever seen. _Who the fuck are you, kid?_

"Your siren. I think it rings in a D sharp and a G. Maybe." The boy leans his head back and closes his eyes. Whatever weird electricity Jim felt fades away immediately. He rubs his sweaty palms on his uniform pants. The kid starts nodding, opens his eyes again. And bzzzzzzzz . . . is it just Jim, or is it buzzing in here?

The little girl waiting next in line starts whining. Kid Six turns to go. _Wait, no. . . I . . . Can't I just stare at you for a few more minutes? Forever? _

What the fucking fuck is wrong with him? This is a _little boy_ he can't stop staring at. Jim feels sick. He ain't that way. He ain't some kind of sick fuck.

Whiny little girl gets in next. "My daddy is a lawyer, and he says cops are always bending the rules."_ Fuck you, kid. Bring back the boy with the blue eyes._

Jim goes through the motions with the rest of the kids. He finishes, but Ana's got more of her Safety First! Blah dee blah dee blah to get through. That's how it always works out: she finishes up while Jim writes the kids' names on their "Junior LAPD Deputy" certificates.

The counselor hands him a list of names. She's kind of hot, he thinks. Yeah. Yes, yes, she IS hot, and that wacky fucking thing with the boy? Just, yeah. Yeah. Counselor is hot. He winks at her when she hands over the list.

Still, though, as he pens their names on the certificates, he wonders who the boy is. He scratches in the girls' names. Emily F. and Michelle and Susan and Emily G. and Courtney and who the fuck cares? The boys' names, though . . . he writes them in, wondering who . . . Mark or Chris or David S. or Wesley or David E.

Maybe hot counselor chick will hand out the certificates to the kids, and he can find out. No such luck. Ana wraps up. Back to the car. Jim turns around, hands his card to the counselor. "So, if you. . . uh… need more certificates or whatever, feel free to give me a call anytime." He looks at her real intense, smiles real hard.

She gets the message. "Of course, Officer. And, maybe I could give you my number? You know . . . just in case."

From the squad car, Ana watches with scorn. She gives him shit on the drive back to the precinct. "Such a slut, Jim, such a slut."

He's gonna try and explain. See how far it goes. "You ever meet someone, and even if you don't know 'em at all, just . . . I don't know . . . get a sense of how you want things to be with them?" Like that Phillips woman whose house he babysat last night. Ana's looking at him with her lip curled up. "Or, like, you meet someone, and right away you know you're gonna be friends or somethin'."

He shouldn't have even bothered. There's no explaining this.

"Sure," Ana remarks. "First time I met you, I got this sense I was supposed to pistol whip you."

Yeah, why the fuck did he bother? "I was actually being serious, Ana."

She keeps her eyes on the road, but shifts her grip on the steering wheel. When she does glance over at him, she says, "Yeah. Weird thing is, I kind of was, too."

Maybe she's not messing with him, maybe she is. He goes ahead and says it anyway. "So, there was this kid, and I don't know . . . I just felt something …"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down, partner. This is about an eight year old girl? Are you out of your mind?"

"It was a boy, actually."

"Ford, that's worse. So much worse."

He waves her off. "No, no, no . .. I mean, I just got this sense. Like, I think maybe I'm supposed to go out with his teacher or something. I know it sounds weird. But . . . I really felt it. Like. . ." OK, he rolls his eyes. "Meant to be or something."

Ana guffaws. "Meant to be. Meant to fucking be. You need more sleep, Ford. That's what you need." Then, "Going out with us tonight? Big Mike's birthday celebration."

"Nah, got plans already."

"With the camp counselor of destiny?"

"Nah."

Plans to sit home and drink himself into a stupor. Read over his Sawyer case file till he passes out.

TWO WEEKS LATER

They're three hours into a stakeout. Waiting for some suspect to appear at his mom's house. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

"So, how're things going with the camp counselor?" Ana asks.

Jim huffs. "Yeah, that didn't work out."

"Well, I'm just _shocked_," Ana snarks. "I thought she was your _destiny_," words dripping sarcasm. "What was it you said? 'Meant to be?' Man, _so_ surprised that didn't work out how you planned."

Jim waves his hand dismissively. Keeps on staring at the perp's mom's door.

Yeah, he called her. Yeah, they went out. Yeah, he screwed her. Just, he guesses he was wrong about that destiny bullshit. She was hot and fun, but . . . She was _supposed _to have read his favorite books, but she hadn't even heard of some of them. Then she got all weirded out about his service weapon. She wasn't _supposed_ to be afraid of guns. And she was _supposed _to be taller.

The kid with the eyes? Chalk it up to what happens when you haven't slept in more than twenty four hours.


	9. 2002

**Stand by. I'm cleaning out the files of half written chapters. Yes, that means random missing chapters from my other story. This one just happened to be almost totally written already.**

* * *

Jim ducks his head, pretending to be engrossed in paperwork, when he sees Miles exiting the locker room. Jim buries himself in his crossword, but of course, Miles ignores all the non-verbal cues.

"You realize our shift's over, right?" Miles asks, adjusting the collar and lapels on his jacket.

Jim says, "Yeah, I know. Just wanna get this settled. Doesn't it . . . I mean, I'm not out to lunch am I? The stories they're telling? They don't add up."

Miles shrugs. "We got a guy booked. He says he did it. He blew over the limit. Facts don't add up? Leave it to the lawyers to sort out."

Totally, totally, totally Jim's normal position. Except . . . except, what? Why can't he let this one go?

Miles says, "Come on, man. Forget about it. Come to Friar Tuck's? Toss a few back with me?"

Jim says, "I just want to wrap a few things up."

"Well, I'm outta here," Miles says. "All right?" Jim nods. He likes Miles, he really does. Six weeks into this partnership, and yeah, he just . . . feels it with this guy. They're gonna make a good team. He doesn't want Miles to think this sort of thing happens with any regularity. It doesn't. Maybe it's the date. Maybe he's looking for an excuse to bury himself in work.

Miles says, "Friar Tuck's, man. Drop by if you get a chance." He slaps his hand on the desk. Jim waves him off. Thing is, even if he wasn't dealing with this stupid DUI case, he wouldn't be tossing a few back with Miles. No, instead he'd be doing his typical July 8 Sawyer-obsessing.

Is that why this stupid case bothers him so much? Just had to bad fortune to happen today?

"Detective Ford?" Kathy breaks him from his reverie. "Dr. Shephard's wife is here."

'_Bout damn time._

"She's at the sergeant's desk. You said you wanted to see her?"

"Yep. Thanks, Kathy." He pats her on the shoulder. Let's see if the Good Mrs. Shephard can shed some light on this.

He trots through the detective's bullpen, out past the holding cells, down to the front lobby. It's right after shift change, and it's crowded, the departing shift logging in their collars, the oncoming shift joshing each other and getting fueled on coffee. Aside from the cops there's a random gaggle of hookers, junkies, witnesses, bleeding victims, the standard Friday night in the precinct. Amid this crew, Mrs. Shephard stands out like a sore thumb, looking anxious and worried and uncomfortable. Perfect. Just how he needs her.

He approaches. "Mrs. Shephard?"

She doesn't meet his eyes. She nods.

"I'm Detective Ford. We spoke earlier?" She still hasn't made eye contact. He grasps her elbow gently. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" She nods, won't look at him, won't blink. He hasn't let go of her elbow. "Let's go somewhere with a little more privacy," he suggests. She's clearly uncomfortable amongst the Friday night hullaballoo.

He guides her to a bench in an alcove in a hallway behind the sergeant's desk. He lets go of her elbow so they can sit.

"First, I just wanna reiterate, they're OK. They're gonna be fine." She nods. He continues. "There's just a few things don't add up, and I was hopin' you could help me out here." She doesn't react. Still isn't looking at him. He tries, gently, "Can I ask you a few questions? That OK with you, Mrs. Shephard?"

She looks him in the eyes for the first time. "Margo. Please, call me Margo," she says.

"Sure. Margo." He nods. He waits for her to say something more, and when she doesn't, he starts in. "So, the accident was pretty nasty. Your husband's car was wrapped 'round that light pole pretty good. Frankly, it's amazing they weren't seriously hurt. _Seriously_ hurt." She winces. He says, "When the officers got to the scene, your husband and son were both outta the car already. Ma'am, Mrs. Shep . . . Margo . . . your husband was so drunk the officers couldn't understand what he was sayin' to them." She looks away, but otherwise her expression doesn't change.

Jim waits a beat. Sometimes you gotta give your suspect, your witness, your interviewee time to hang themselves. No one likes silence, and once the person you're talking to wants to fill it, you start getting your information. Mrs. Shephard doesn't fill the silence.

So, Jim starts up again. "Single car accident like that, we pretty much always go straight to drunk driving. 'Cept your husband swears up 'n down it wasn't him drivin'. Your son says he was behind the wheel." Another pause. Mrs. Shephard looks him square in the eyes now, but still keeps quiet.

"So, we gave him a breathalyzer in the field. He blew a point oh eight." She remains stony faced and silent, so Jim elaborates. "That's the legal limit. We've booked your son for DUI, ma'am. It's just . . . that's only a few drinks. Probably one too many, but not the kinda thing that ends up with a car wrapped around a light pole. Not only that, but the cut on your son's head, and on your husband's face . . . they ain't necessarily consistent with the story I'm hearin'."

"Detective Ford, this is all fascinating. I thought you had some questions for me. All I'm hearing is a rundown of your evening."

_Bitch._ Jim never loses his cool when he's on the job, though.

"Good point, ma'am. I guess what I'm wonderin' is . . . would your son . . . do you think he . . . is he covering for his father? And if so, why would he get in the car with someone that drunk?"

"Who knows what Jack would or wouldn't do?"

Jim shrugs. _Don't look at me, lady, I'm askin' you._

"Detective, my husband is a well-respected surgeon. He can't afford any blemish on his record."

"But your son can?"

"If my son says he was driving that car, then he was driving that car. Now, I was told I could take my husband home with me. Can you tell me where I need to go?" She rises. Conversation over.

"Yeah, Sergeant Holmes at the front desk can help you out. Actually, the magistrate is releasing your son. He'll need a ride, too."

"He's an adult. I'm sure he can figure it out on his own." She turns and strides to the sergeant's desk.

Damn. Day-um. That is cold. That is one royally fucked-up family dynamic. Jay-sus.

Jim walks back by the holding cells on the way to his desk. Why? Why does he care? Who the fuck knows?

He stops at Shephard's cell. Poor dude is sitting on the bench, elbows on knees, head hanging down. "Hey, Doc. Just wanted to let you know your dad's gonna be fine. Your mom's come to take him home, let him dry out a little. You're free to go, and I asked if she minded givin' you a lift, but she . . . she declined."

Shephard snorts a laugh. "She'd think it was awkward." He doesn't seem surprised.

Why can't Jim just let this one go? "So, listen, you got anyone to call who can come get you?"

"Thought I used up my one phone call." He called his mom. Lot of good that did him.

"I can call for ya." Why? Why? What the HELL does this matter to him?

"I, uh, I guess, uh . . . My ex. She'd probably come get me."

"Great. Name and number, please," Jim opens his notebook, clicks his Bic.

"Uh, uh . . . it's uhm, 261 . . ." Jim scrawls 261- in his notebook. Looks up expectantly. Shephard shakes his head. "Nevermind. Nevermind. She'd have to get a sitter, and besides . . . this isn't her cross to bear anymore. I believe her exact words were that this was 'one royally fucked up family dynamic'."

Jim guffaws. _Jinx, lady. You owe me a Coke._

Shephard looks up to him, glaring, his face twitching. "Sorry," Jim offers. "Just . . . you realize she's right, doncha?"

Shephard keeps glaring. After a second the anger seems to drain away. "Yeah. Guess so." Then apropos of nothing, "I have a son. I would never allow him to take the fall for me. _Ever_."

Jim turns off the weirdly concerned fellow man, turns back on the police detective. "Did you just admit to me that you're takin' the fall for your dad?"

Shephard looks caught in the headlights. He blinks a few times. "I did not. I'm speaking hypothetically. You know what that means?"

_Jackass._ Jim never loses his cool when he's on the job, though.

He raps the cell bars with his notebook. Case over. This fella can fend for himself. Jim flips his notebook closed. "I'll have someone call ya a cab." He turns to leave.

Except . . . except . . . He stops and turns back to the cell. "You blew a point oh eight. That's the legal limit – exactly. Those field analyzers ain't perfect. Point oh eight falls in the margin of error, and we were too late to do a blood test. Get yourself a lawyer, and he can probably get you outta this mess you got yourself in. 'Course I shouldn't be tellin' ya all this, so let's just say I'm speakin' hypothetically. You know what that means?"

The doc actually grins, and has the decency to look chagrined. "Thanks, Detective," he says.

Jim wonders if maybe he should shake the guy's hand. He chooses not to.

He returns to his desk, flips open his notebook, scrolls through his case notes, impressions of the scene, interviews with the docs, driving record background check (clean), his tête-à-tête with Margo, the ex's half-written phone number. _One royally fucked up family dynamic._ He laughs to himself.

'Course he should know from royally fucked up family dynamics. Least the Shephards are all still living and breathing. None of 'em killed each other (although tonight's run-in with the light post could've put a stop to that). And if the younger Dr. Shephard's going to spend part of the night in a jail cell, what is it Detective Jim Ford was planning on doing? Oh, that's right: sitting home alone with his Sawyer file. Well, fuck that.

Twenty minutes later, he strolls in to Friar Tuck's. Hopes Miles is still here. The place is crowded and dim and loud. He can't see anything, and all he can hear is some cheesy, pounding, 1970s Barry White music coming from the jukebox.

_I see so many ways that I can love you till the day I die. You're my reality ._

The music makes Jim happy, even if he has to fight an eyeroll. It means Miles is still here. Miles loves this Barry White shit.

Jim edges along the side wall, makes eye contact with a few promising young ladies, jostles a few out of the way with a well-placed hand to the lower back. He spots Miles, who waves him over to his table, lifting a full pitcher of beer.

Miles pours him a drink. "You get it all sorted out with the drinking surgeons?" Miles asks him before adding, "Listen, man. Do me a favor: if I ever need surgery? Make sure neither of those clowns is involved."

Jim laughs his agreement. Then he says, "Miles, I ain't normally like that. Listen, I give you permission to bop me over the head if I ever start takin' too keen an interest in a case. All right?"

"You got it, boss." They raise their pint glasses, clink them together, survey the ladies of the bar.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Jim's conquest for the evening is across the room, telling her friends she'll be going home with the cute police officer in the corner.

While she's away, Miles offers his opinion. "Dude. What the hell are you doing? She's _so_ not your type."

Miles is always offering these weird opinions that have no basis in fact. Jim cocks his head, glances across the room at . . . well, shit, he can't quite remember her name. Jim sizes her (Amy? Amanda?) up again. He says, "She's got big tits, right?" _That right there makes her Jim's type._

Miles nods.

"And a nice ass?" _Just an added bonus._

Miles nods again.

Jim shrugs. "Then she's my type. I don't know what you're talkin' about."

Miles tries to explain. "She's a total dingbat. Doubt she could carry on a conversation about anything that's not covered in _US Weekly_."

Jim leans across the table. "You realize I ain't takin' her home to discuss the latest Philip Roth novel, right?"

Miles laughs. "No. Yeah, no. . . you're right. I dunno. I guess I just thought that you . . ." he stares into his pint glass. "I thought you liked. . . Fuck it, man, I'm drunk. Don't listen to me."

Clearly Miles doesn't know him nearly as well as he sometimes seems to.

"You ready, officer?" Amanda(?) giggles.

Jim smiles broadly, stands, and puts an arm over her shoulders. He leans down to Miles. "Catch ya on the flipside, Enos." Miles and his ridiculous fucking ideas . . . this chick is _so_ Jim's type.

Except by the time he's got her home, he wonders why she won't shut the fuck up. God, she's a fucking dingbat. He screws her in part because she's hot. Big tits, great ass, seriously. Jim's type. Seriously, shut the fuck up Miles. He screws her in part because it's the only way he can figure to get her to shut up. So fucking stupid and flighty, and maybe Miles is right . . . No, Miles needs to mind his own fucking business, that's what.

* * *

**There's a 2003 version of this kind of written, and a 2004 version completely written. After that . . . well, I had plans to continue this, but that's highly unlikely, so don't get your hopes up.**


	10. 2003

Jim worked his ass off at the gym this morning. This afternoon he pounded out a 5-mile run. Then he took a scalding shower that left his muscles rubbery and his skin dry. All that sweating, pounding, and cleaning didn't do the trick. He's spent, but it don't matter: it's 5 PM, and he's got his file on his table. He uncaps a full bottle of rum.

He's opening the manila folder when his cell rings. _Son of a bitch_. He recognizes the precinct number on the display, punches the 'ignore' button. He took the day off for a reason. Ain't gonna answer that. He reads through page one. A lead on some guy running cons down in Tustin. May be worth checking out. His phone chirps. '1 new voicemail.' No shit.

His home phone rings not a minute later. "Jesus F. Christ, leave me the hell alone!" he barks to the empty apartment. Miles thinks he should get fish. Another one of Miles' lame ideas. Miles thinks Jim doesn't wanna live alone. Joke's on Miles.

His machine picks up. "Jim. It's Lieutenant Brooks. There's been an . . . incident." Jim jumps up for the phone, feeling sick. An incident? What the hell's that supposed to mean? It sounds innocuous, but it makes Jim's skin crawl.

"Hello? Hello? Lou, I'm here. What's going on?"

"There was a shooting at an In-N-Out. Miles was hit."

Maybe there's a reason Jim hasn't really hit the rum yet. Hell, maybe there's a reason for everything. What it means now is that Jim can speed himself to the hospital.

* * *

The clutch of nervous uniforms is hard to miss. He heads in their direction to get story_. I shoulda been there. I shoulda been there. I shouldn't of took the day off. Dammit dammit. DAMMIT!_

Lieutenant Brooks intercepts him before he gets a chance to confront the uniforms. He clamps a hand on Jim's shoulders, steers him toward the vending machines. "Now listen here, Jim. Don't get any ideas about going out and doing anything stupid. Everything's being taken care of . . ." The lieutenant's walkie chirps. "Gotta take this." Lou waves over a nearby nurse. "This is Detective Straume's partner. Can you fill him in?" She nods, while Lou wanders off.

"Follow me, detective," she says.

_Is Miles OK? What happened? Is he going to be OK? _

Jim's voice doesn't work, or he'd be asking anyone and everyone, not following along like some baby duck.

"Wanda!" Someone somewhere barks, and his mama duck nurse tells him, "Wait, please, detective, I'll be right back." Off she goes.

_Is he going to be OK? Please let him be OK. Please. Please._

TRAUMA 1 the door to Jim's right reads. Trauma. Fuck. He peers in the windows, and all he can see is a whole goddamn medical team hovering over a body on the table. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God. Please. All those people in scrubs and robes and surgical caps and masks, and they're running around like crazy. The machines are making so much noise, and tubes and blood and someone in there sounds alarmed, and _Oh, please, please._

Someone in there's really out of sorts. Jim can hear the complaint and whine in his voice. It makes him uneasy.

Another voice cuts through the commotion. It's calm, but commanding: "Calm down, Neil. We're gonna get through this."

Jim perks his head up. Who said that? One of the women, but all those people in there with their caps and masks and gowns . . .

He steps closer to the window on the door. The same voice starts issuing orders about clamps and suction and other medical mumbo jumbo, and nothing's changed and everything's changed. Everyone in there's still running around like crazy and the tubes and the noise, but this voice, Jim thinks that's the person in charge. And everything is going to be OK. It is. It is. He's going to be fine. Miles is gonna make it.

"Detective, sorry about that." Wanda, the mama duck nurse, is back. She shakes her head. "Not your partner in there. Follow me."

He follows, but not without twisting himself all around, trying to look in there again. He gets so twisted around, he has to trot to catch up with Wanda. He swallows all his questions yet again. Who was that in there? It's going to be OK, right? He's pretty sure it is. That lady doctor said it would be.

Miles is the next trauma room over. It's way calmer in there. When Jim peers through the door, he sees Miles on the gurney. The gurney's cranked so that Miles is sitting up. He's shirtless, with an oxygen mask over his face, bandages on his shoulder, blood seeping through.

Lieutenant Brooks comes marching back down the hall, waving his walkie. "That was Memorial. Looks like at least one of them's going to pull through."

Finally. FINALLY, Jim manages to ask a question. "What the hell happened, boss?"

"Some lunatic started shooting up the In-N-Out. Miles happened to be there getting a burger. Anyway, four dead at the scene, including the shooter. Miles took him out. They sent two off to Memorial, and two here: Miles and the pregnant civilian." Lou gestures over at Trauma 1.

"She gonna be OK?" She is, Jim knows. She is.

"She's in good hands," Wanda asserts.

"And Miles?"

The lieutenant answers, "Shot through the shoulder. Gonna be fine. I think they'll send him up to recovery for the night, looks like desk duty for about six weeks, then good as new."

Good as new, but a genuine fucking hero. He's gonna be as sonofabitch to deal with.

* * *

"Left on the next hall, then third door on the right. And if anyone asks? I've never seen you before in my life, detective." The nurse winks at him.

"You got it, Doris."

He used his badge and dimples to talk his way in for this post-visiting-hours visit. Miles has been in recovery for two hours now, and Jim's pretty sure he could use a visit, so screw visiting hours.

Jim turns left as instructed. He looks for the third door on the right, and shit. Someone in scrubs backing out the door now. Jim immediately hugs the wall, ducks behind an equipment cart of some sort. Please go the other way, lady, please. He thinks up a quick lie for what he's doing crouched here on the floor, just in case she heads this direction. He'll flash his badge, play the "I'm a cop" card.

He waits a few beats before peering around the cart. Whew. Crisis averted. He sees a silhouette at the other end of the hall, heading off to the other wing.

He waits a few more seconds, just in case, then dashes into Miles' room. Not that he gives two shits one way or the other whether he's breaking hospital rules, but Doris seemed a decent enough person. He'd hate to get her in trouble.

Miles looks surprised and grateful to see him. He looks ashen, but he's still Miles: "That chick digs me," he says, eyes on the door, and Jim takes that to mean the close encounter he had out in the hallway.

"And what would Naomi think about you laid up in here, hitting on some nurse?"

"She wasn't a nurse, man. She was a doctor."

Jim rolls his eyes. Like some doctor'd want anything to do with Miles. "Yeah, well then it's lucky I missed her, 'cause I doubt she'd have anything good to say about this." Jim holds up the bag he's had tucked under his jacket. "Tacos." In-N-Out seemed in poor taste.

Miles grins. "She wouldn't care. She wasn't _my_ doctor. She was the doctor for that pregnant civilian they brought in here."

Jim leans closer. _Did she have a really calm voice?_, he thinks. What he asks is, "Did she pull through?"

"Yep, and the baby's gonna survive, too." Miles beams.

"Good work, Miles," Jim says seriously.

Miles bites into his taco. "You got crunchy, man?"

"Thought you liked 'em crunchy."

"Not for takeout. They get too soggy, you nitwit."

Jim tries to hold back, because Miles did just get shot and all, but, goddamn, he can be a pain in the ass. Tamest thing Jim can come up with is, "What makes you think that doctor chick digs you, anyway?"

"We have the same taste in music." Miles points to his cell phone. "She heard my ringtone."

Jim rolls his eyes. That irritating as crap Barry White shit. "Well that's just great, Enos. We'll be sure to play it at your wedding, then."

"Wanna know who was calling?"

Not really. Jim says, "Your _girlfriend_, maybe?"

"Nope. It was the mayor. He said I'm a genuine hero. Hear that, Jim? A gen-you-ine hero."

Fuck, he's gonna be a bear to deal with.


	11. 2004, take two

Jim enters his apartment, flipping on lights as he goes. His shift dragged on late tonight, some kind of BS paperwork drill he and Miles blew off a few weeks back. They were stuck tap, tap, tapping at their computer keyboards until past 7. Naomi must've called at least three times. Dinner plans had to be changed, and she was disappointed and blah blah blah. Jim's lucky he don't have to deal with that shit. No one gives a rat's ass when (or whether) he makes it home at night.

Another one of Miles' wacky ideas is that Jim needs to settle down, and Miles is always on the warpath trying to set him up with this or that girl he knows, friend of Naomi's, neighbor, girl he met at the coffee shop. Always these smart chicks, another of Miles' weird fuckin' notions being that Jim likes brainy broads. That's one Miles won't let go of. Latest is this gal who works for his dad, and fact is, Jim might just say yes in order to shut Miles up.

Jim whistles as he pops a meal in the microwave, uncaps a beer, sorts through his mail, bill, junk, junk, bill, package from Amazon . . . Good. Something new to read while he eats. He pulls the cardboard strip. _Moneyball_ on top of two other books backed by cardboard, wrapped in plastic. He punches through the plastic with his bottle opener, rips through. He sets _Moneyball_ aside. Next is _The Fortress of Solitude. _Then_ The Time Traveler's Wife?_ The fuck? He turns it over, reads the blurb. Sounds like a chick book to him. He tosses it on the pile of bills and junk. Must've clicked the wrong button on Amazon.

The microwave beeps. He removes his meal, grabs _Moneyball_, leans against his kitchen counter. He can't keep the new book open and eat at the same time, so he pushes the book aside. He eats his meal in a few gulps, contemplates popping another in. He takes another swig of beer.

He chuckles to himself. July 8 and all is copacetic. No files to obsess over tonight. Nope, he's run all his leads. That thing down in Tustin turned out to be hot, hot, hot, and now he's got a lead on the guy . . . Alan Seward (probably not his real name, the cop in Jim knows) . . . Course he's gotta chase Mr. Seward halfway across the globe, but when you spent most of your life on this, goin' to Australia ain't no big deal.

He's got his roundtrip LA-to-Sydney tickets bought and paid for, and already worked up a lie to tell nosy Miles (trip to Palm Springs). All's he's gotta do is get to Australia and track down Mr. Alan Seward, and . . . and . . .

_And then what?_

Ah, Voice of Reason, wonderin' when you'd show up this evening. Voice of Reason intrudes from time to time, usually when Jim's getting ready to do something stupid or impetuous. _James, stop_, when he's thisclose to giving some mouthy junkie a good pop in the kisser. No surprise that Voice of Reason's decided to question his half-baked plans upon arriving Down Under.

_Whaddaya mean, then what?_ Shut up, Voice of Reason.

He decides not to let Voice of Reason interfere anymore tonight. He's gonna go out and enjoy himself, that's what. See what Voice of Reason thinks about that (for about a year or so, Voice of Reason's been a female voice). He thinks maybe he can piss off Voice of Reason by hooking up with some random chick in a bar. Jim realizes he's a little insane sometimes.

* * *

But who the fuck cares if he's a little insane? Maybe he only came here tonight to shut up or piss off Voice of Reason, but the result is Detective Jim Ford sitting at the bar, with this hot chick's hand on his inner thigh. She smells nice, she looks fantastic, and although she probably ain't gonna be winning any MacArthur Genius Grants in this lifetime or any other, she's not a complete dingbat, so at least Miles may be happy about that . . .

Miles and his harebrained ideas . . .

The non-dingbat leans in closer, and Jim dips his head to plant a kiss on the base of her neck. She's got gorgeous blonde hair, and maybe Jim's a little more drunk and a little less stable than he thought he was. OK, maybe he's way more drunk than he thought . . .

Here's one of Miles' more ridiculous theories: you can judge how much Jim's had to drink based on the color hair of the girl he goes home with.

Red heads mean he's stone cold sober, maybe, just _maybe_, a drink or two. They don't come a dime a dozen, gingers don't, and that fiery temperament thing ain't no joke. Gotta stay on your toes, keep your mind clear. Jim's about 99.99% sure this is behind Miles' current obsession with setting him up with that gal down at his dad's museum. Keep Jim on the straight and narrow.

Raven-headed gals mean he's put back more than a few . . . sometimes just enough to be relaxed and go with the flow, sometimes enough to be belligerent and itching for a fight. Still his great shame how the whole thing with him and Ana went down. They had a good deal going, till they had to go get in some stupid fucking argument over . . . shit, he don't even remember anymore. Weapons count down at the armory? Hell he can't remember, and he had to go and get himself in his cups, run into Ana down at the watering hole, and next thing he knows they're doin' it in the backseat of her car. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Poof! There goes their partnership, and not two weeks later Ana goes and gets herself shot. Jim's convinced it never woulda happened if they were still partners. Still hates himself for that. She's gonna be OK, but word around the force is she turned dark after that.

Brunettes? Well now, he's gotta be pretty fucking drunk to hook up with one of them. It ain't so much the bein' with them, it's the after . . . after they leave or after he stumbles outta their beds . . . he feels lost. Like, what the hell was he thinking? And of course it ain't nothin' but a roll in the hay, and what the hell made him think it would be more, and why does he feel so damn low? So, no, he steers clear of brunettes, unless he gets too drunk.

Blondes? Whooooo boy. He's gotta be fuckin' hammered to wanna mess around with one of them. They creep him out . . . big time. Not that he ain't attracted. He kept a Christie Brinkley poster in his high school locker like every other red-blooded male in the 1980s. That, actually, is what makes it so difficult. He's totally attracted to them. They're the ones he looks at first in the bar, or discreetly follows with his eyes on sidewalks. It's just . . . they all make him feel so damn weird. They ain't right. They're too . . . short or chatty or jumpy or ignorant or . . .or something . . . So, when he can manage to get plastered, that's who he goes for first: hottest blonde in the room, and if he's shitfaced enough, none of that other stuff matters.

Like right now, it don't matter none that this current one is too . . . something. Always something. She strokes his thigh, giggles in his ear. Too easy. That's what. This one's too easy.

Jim's drunk enough that it don't matter. Just 'cause Miles' theories are dopey don't mean they ain't true.

"Wanna get out of here, Blondie?" he murmurs in her ear.

She giggles - again. Too giggly. Too short. Too dumb. Too easy.

He staggers off his barstool, loops an arm around her waist. He sways there uneasily, throws a handful of twenties on the bar.

_Aren't you a state?_ Voice of Reason notes from outta nowhere.

The blonde chick giggles again, some more, and his stomach turns. He feels slimy, and the chick is creeping him out. Too short. Too chatty. Too easy. Too dumb.

"Know what?" he asks. "On second thought, that ain't such a good idea." He disentangles himself from her, and bangs out the front door.

When the cab drops him at his apartment complex, he stands at the curb for a good long while, staring into the sky. The stars are muted by the city's light pollution. He once lived someplace where the stars were so bright and clear. Where was that? Rural Alabama?

The sky makes him feel so lonely. Maybe he don't wanna be alone. Maybe another of Miles' dimwitted ideas is actually true. Maybe he shoulda brought Blondie home. Except Goddamn Voice of Reason had to butt in, dammit.

"You just had to say something," he growls at the stars, really to Voice of Reason. Great. Now he's talking to himself.

* * *

**The 2005 chapter of this exists only in my head. What I've been doing of late is just regurgitating half-written chapters I'd already done. 2005 means starting from scratch, and that means . . . that means, wait. I'll probably get around to it sooner or later, but no guarantees.**


End file.
